Charmer of the Shadows
by LesMisLoony
Summary: Despite what you may think, Montparnasse’s life was really a neverending search for love, happiness, and fancy clothes... until he met Eponine. Rated for language, loose women, and lots of blood. Complete at last.
1. Sophie

A/N- Hello, hello! This is my angstiest story yet, full of romance, heartache, and – best of all – blood! Yay! So it's PG-13 for a reason. I know this isn't much of a chapter, but bear with me.

Disclaimer- I don't own many of the characters, and I don't own a bit of the dialogue later on. Most of it is Hugo, you know.

* * *

**Charmer of the Shadows**

For what must have been the hundredth time, Sophie ran her fingers down the side of her dress, then glumly held it against her body. It had been a long time since she had been able to work… The clothes she liked to call her "work suit" had been set aside for this oversized dress the landlady had loaned her in an uncharacteristic moment of generosity. After all, in her line of business, it was very difficult to get paid in a condition such as hers. She put her hand against her bulging belly, noting how the skin seemed to swell from her own bony frame into this smooth mound. Sophie felt a slight movement and pressed her palm against it. The child was particularly restless. This was unusual…

She gasped. Could it be time? Hiding her work suit under the filthy straw mattress, Sophie threw open the door and called for the landlady. Several of her neighbours swore loudly at being disturbed at so late an hour, and Sophie could not help but smile wryly. If they were protesting at the noise now, what would they do in an hour or so while she was in labour?

The portly landlady appeared at the top of the stairs, still wearing her night-gown and breathing heavily. "What now, girl?" she panted.

Sophie gestured to her stomach. "The child wants to be born tonight."

"Don't disturb my paying tenants."

"I swear I'll pay when I return to my work!"

The landlady paused. "I don't want you to take that up again either."

Sophie winced but answered innocently, "What do you mean, Madame?"

"Mademoiselle," the woman began, "I am not so deaf as you might think, nor am I thick. I saw you coming here with a different customer every night. I know that you haven't any idea which of these fathered your child-"

"But I do know, Madame," Sophie interrupted. She felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickling all over again at the thought of the dark, mysterious man who had come to her that night. His burning dark eyes and beautiful black hair made her shiver even now.

"What was his name?" the old woman frowned.

Sighing, Sophie shook her head. "That, I don't know."

"You're certain that the child is coming?"

Sophie nodded.

"Then… I must ask you to leave," the landlady said slowly.

"But Madame-"

"Your noise will bother my paying tenants, and the cries of a child will follow. Your rent will double if you don't go."

Sophie continued to plead with the woman, but she would not be swayed. The girl had lived in this building for over a year, and had grown quite attached to it despite her dirty room and ripped straw mattress. It was all she could afford, and what other landlady would have promised to let her stay when she could not work, provided she repaid every sou the moment the child was born. But the old woman was without pity. Weeping, the girl collected her few belongings and went out into the streets of Paris.

Another spasm of pain wracked her thin body, and she realised that she had to get out of the public view. Where could she go? What place in this city would be suitable for childbirth?

The only place Sophie could think of – the only place where she could be alone – was underneath the city.

The boy was born in the sewers of Paris.


	2. The Cost of Five Francs

A/N- Sorry that update took so long. My computer froze again, plus school started up and I had craploads of homework from math class and biology. I have to update by saving new chapters to disks and bringing them to school and proofing and uploading them during lunch... and I've only got five minutes till the bell rings! Ahhh!

AmZ- Hey, you're smart. In 1835 would a guillotine still be used, or would folks condemned have just been hung?

nebulia- Queen of LM angst? That makes me feel so special...

H. Sibelius- Ummm... not really. But most of what I know about whores and uprisings and the 19th century and Paris and (blah blah blah) I know from reading LM over and over, so it doesn't surprise me... rambleramble.

ArgentineRose- Hehe now there's a thought... poor fella.

Toff- Yay thankee!

Obsetress- Go, post! The more Montparnasse-ness the better, serious or otherwise!

Kang Xiu- I've read your Sophie/Sophia story, and it was splendid... but all that you write seems to be splendid...

Bubonic Woodchuck- Wasn't meant to be, but if you want him to be a LM character then have at it... Erik sounds good, hehe.

Elyse3- I really don't have the time, but I'm making this story a priority. Curse my poor little computer. Ah well, I do what I can with the (crappy) resources I'm given.

* * *

Sophie wrapped the baby in the rags of the landlady's dress and laid him on the dry stone near the sewer grating. She would have to leave him for a few hours – there was no other choice. He was deep in sleep when she cast a final glance over her shoulder and closed the grate behind her.

The slight girl knew that leaving a baby alone in a sewer was terribly dangerous. She was aware of the many ways he could die in these few hours, but she could think of nothing else to do. She had to have work. Perhaps in the depths of her mind she knew that the boy's death would be the easiest way out of her current predicament, although she certainly did not wish her child dead.

The sewers had been their home for the last few months, but winter was getting colder. A stolen scrap of food or a sou obtained by begging every few days could not keep her alive forever, and if she died the child would starve. Her work suit fit again – fortunate, for the landlady's large dress had become clothes for the baby, and all her other belongings had been sold for food. Sophie was left only with this low-cut dress and ragged bonnet – her work suit.

Perhaps if she returned to her job she could have enough money to buy a room within a few weeks. She would have to work every night, but she would do what she must.

Sophie found herself on the street corner moments later, shivering with her bare feet on the cold ground. Several gentlemen gave her an appraising glance, but none of them stopped. A little urchinboybegan to tease her, at last finding someone who was more miserable than he. "Ah," he cried, "I believe your lips are blue, Madame Publique. Why don't you go home to your husband?"

Although the boy was irritating, Sophie realised that his jeers were attracting more attention than she had had before, so she allowed him to continue. She crossed her thin arms over her stomach.

"Or do you not have a husband, ey? How silly of me to have forgotten! Every man in Paris is yours!"

A warm, heavy hand seized her shoulder, and a man's voice muttered from behind her, "How much?"

Sophie turned to see her prospective customer. He was a tall man, not bad looking, yet something about his cold eyes made her want to shrink away. Still, he was well off, and she could use the money. Sophie tried to give him the winning mischievous smile that had secured so many customers in the past, but something inside her had changed, and the smile felt thin and stretched. "How much are you willing to pay?"

He looked her over, and she became aware that the child had probably added a few years to her face. Her hair was black, her lips still full, but under her dark eyes were deep shadows that had not been there before.

The man finally nodded and reached into his pocket, counted a few coins out of a bulging purse, and held them out to her. Sophie's eyes widened. Five francs! That was unheard of! What she could do with that wealth… Quickly hiding her astonishment, she nodded to the man. "Shall we rent a room, monsieur, or go to your place?"

He frowned. "My place is no good. I board with a friend and his mistress. And I've borrowed this money, so I don't wish to be in debt over a few francs. Tell me, where do you live?"

"I have no home, monsieur," she replied. And here she was faced with another problem. If they went to her place – that is, the sewers – he would know she had a child. The odd thing about some men, she had noticed, was that they did not like to think that other men had bought her services. If this man was like those, a child could ruin everything and lose her these five francs.

Five francs!

On the other hand, if she were to go somewhere else the child could die. The landlady's dress was warm, but she thought of the rats… Perhaps he had already been killed.

The man made a gesture of impatience. "Surely you sleep somewhere."

"The sewers, monsieur."

"Good," he said decisively, "we'll go there."

And Sophie realised he was one of those men, the kind that wanted to believe that he was her first customer. If he did not care he would have asked where she slept when she did not have a customer, or perhaps he would not have asked at all, assuming she boarded somewhere different every night. She glanced at the coins in her hand. Five francs was far more than she had ever been paid for one night. She wondered if this man had ever had a whore before.

The gamin had not left, and he began to tease Sophie again. She no longer heard him, for all of her being was focused on the dilemma she faced. "Got a customer, Madame Publique? He must be an oaf to choose a bony thing like you!"

"Off with you!" the man shouted, threatening the boy with a fist. Giggling, the child scampered away.

As Sophie led the man to the sewer she prayed that the baby would sleep the whole night. A knot of fear built up in the depths of her soul as she pulled the grate open and stepped inside, the gentleman following. The dirty rags wrapped around the child made him difficult to see against the stone where he was laid. Sophie found herself hoping that these five francs would be hers after all.

Turning to face the gentleman, Sophie slowly began to unfasten her dress. He grinned and pulled her to him, kissing her as the two slowly sank to the ground. She felt the muck at the bottom of the sewer against her bare back, but the thought of the five francs kept her from protesting or moving away. She pulled the man's jacket off of his shoulders and he used one hand to toss it into the corner. Sophie watched, wide-eyed, as the sleeve of the jacket fell across the baby. He did not cry out. The gentleman did not see his chubby little arms reaching upward, clutching at the jacket, but Sophie did. She prayed that he would remain silent.

But God, in his mysterious wisdom, did not see fit to grant her prayer.

A moment passed, and the baby gurgled happily. The gentleman's head jerked up. "What was that?"

She pulled him back down. "It was nothing, monsieur."

At the sound of his mother's voice, the baby cooed again. The gentleman rolled off of her and got to his feet, snatching up his jacket. Sophie jumped up after him. "Monsieur?"

He was buttoning his shirt, frowning at the squirming child. "You'll never be able to keep a customer if you've got a child."

"Monsieur…"

"I'll have my five francs back."

These words echoed in Sophie's ears, and she stepped away. She needed that money! If he took it back she would die. "I beg you, monsieur, don't take the money! I'll starve if I don't have food soon, and every day is colder than the last! Surely you won't need these five francs! To lose them would bother you, but it would kill me! This child is murdering me, monsieur!"

"Then murder the child," the gentleman said coldly. Holding out a hand, he repeated, "My money."

Despairing, Sophie threw herself at his feet, prostrate in the shallow slime of the sewer. "Pity, monsieur," she whimpered. "Have pity on me, I implore you."

He seized her wrist and yanked her violently to her feet. "Give me the money!" he shouted, flinging her away from him. Sophie collided with the wall of the sewer and landed in a heap with her leg bent oddly under her. She felt the bone splinter, and the baby began to wail. Crying softly, she located the coins and held them out to the gentleman.

He took them roughly from her and stormed out.


	3. Of Love and Friendship

A/N- Blargh… My internet at home's still broken, so I probably won't be able to post this for a long time, despite the fact I'm typing it on the fourteenth… Meh. (It's fixed now, obviously, but it took ELEVEN DAYS. I 'bout died with no Internet access or Microsoft Word.)

nebulia- Isn't he? I love him, obviously... and yeah, things suck for Sophie. Poor gal.

Elyse3- Yeah, I was going for the young thing. I don't know if I'll be able to keepthe gothic feelup long, sadly, but I can make an effort.

Obsetress- Be sure! Honestly, there isn't enough Parnasse in the world. That web address didn't show up, by the way.

AmZ- Thanks so much. You rock.

ArgentineRose- Did I put 'buy'? Oops... ah well. And if you think that was angsty and far too dramatic... muahaha...

H. Sibelius- Why, thanks. Yay for the Christianity of Victor Hugo and Victor Hugo wannabes like me!

Kang Xiu- It's unlikely, but I was writing it when I was highly depressed in French class, mourning over the advent of the euro,so Ijust went with it. Yeah...

Mlle. Verity- I hope so, that was the intention. I suppose it worked?

* * *

"Hello?" 

At the sound of the voice, Sophie bit her lip to stifle her sobs. She hadn't been aware that she had been crying loudly enough to attract attention from passersby out on the street.

"Is someone there?"

The voice was kind and soft, perhaps of a young lady. Sophie took a deep breath and dragged herself to the grate. The girl she saw standing there seemed to be only a few years younger than she was. Sophie quickly took in the innocent face, gorgeous blonde hair, and pure eyes in an appraising glance.

"Oh my… May I help you somehow?"

Sophie shook her head. "I don't think so."

"Can… can you come out here?"

"My leg is broken."

The young lady began to chew on her nail. "I can help you walk to a doctor."

"I have no money."

"I can pay." The girl offered her shoulder. "Use me as a crutch."

"I have to bring the baby."

The clear blue eyes widened. "You have a baby? May I hold him?"

Sophie leaned into the shadows and lifted the boy into her arms, then passed him through the open grate to the young lady. He did not make a sound.

"He's so quiet," the girl murmured.

"He stopped crying long ago. I can't feed him anymore." Sophie had accepted that she and the child would die, and now she simply wanted this intruder to leave them in peace. The girl, however, seemed determined to linger.

"And so thin…" she sighed, touching the baby's cheek.

Sophie nodded wearily.

The young lady looked up at her, then back down at the child. "The poor little one." Her eyes met Sophie's, and an idea seemed to form in her mind. "Come with me," she said abruptly. "I'll hold the baby and you can lean on my shoulder. We are going to a doctor."

"Mademoiselle - " Sophie protested weakly.

The young lady shook her head. "I will pay."

Sophie was so surprised by this that she found herself thanking the stranger and accepting her charity. She knew this girl could not be very well off - although anyone with a bit of money to spare was in a better condition than Sophie - but a doctor's care meant that she would be well enough to walk again. And if she could walk, Sophie could return to her work, and she and the baby might survive after all. Sophie had said, "Oh, thank you, Mademoiselle!" before she had considered whether the girl could really afford to help her.

The young lady smiled, and her beautiful teeth caught Sophie's attention. "Well, we can't go on calling each other Mademoiselle. You must call me by my name, as though we were friends."

"If you wish, Mademoiselle."

"I do wish it," she said cheerfully. "Call me Fantine."

"I am Sophie."

"And the baby?" Fantine asked, nodding toward the child in her arms. "What do you call him?"

"I haven't named him," answered Sophie. "I'm afraid - "

Fantine nodded. "Well, you can name him now. I want you to room with me."

"You… you would share your room with me?" Sophie stammered, bewildered. "But I…"

"Yes," Fantine said firmly. "And I will help you find work," she added, offering her hand.

Sophie took it, and Fantine helped her to her feet.

* * *

The two got on wonderfully for a little over a month. Fantine was not incredibly well off, as Sophie had suspected, but she had enough to support herself, Sophie, and the baby. The day after they visited the doctor Fantine had come home with a new dress for Sophie, whose work suit was covered in muck from the sewers. The landlady's old dress was discarded for a warm woolen blanket, and it was not long until the baby began to coo again.

The girls often talked late into the night. Sophie and Fantine were both orphans, and Fantine had come to Paris from a small town by the sea at fifteen years old. She had never loved a man.

"But you," Fantine had said once, "where is the child's father?"

Sophie was startled by this question. She had assumed that Fantine understood about her former line of business. "I- I don't know."

"He abandoned you? How cruel!" exclaimed Fantine. "Was it because he found that you were with child?"

Sophie thought of explaining prostitution to the younger girl, but something in those innocent blue eyes held her back. "Yes," she whispered. "It was because of the child."

"Tell me about him," Fantine smiled. "Was he incredibly handsome?"

Without knowing why, Sophie found herself describing the baby's father to her friend.

Fantine shivered. "He sounds absolutely terrible! And yet he seems so mysterious… Look at my arms!" The thin blonde hairs on her arms were standing up.

Sophie smiled.

"How could you tell you were in love?" Fantine asked.

Love? Sophie did not know how it felt. She faltered, then answered, "I cannot describe it."

Fantine moved closer to her. "Is it as if you can only think of him, and every time his eyes meet yours your stomach turns warm? Did you try to find where he would be every moment of the day so that you could cross his path and he would see you?"

"Fantine!" Sophie had said in astonishment. "Where is this coming from?"

This was the first time Sophie heard Fantine speak this way, but it was not the last. Talk of love arose between them more often, alongside the description of a man Sophie considered to be unattractive. She called him "that bald man," a name at which Fantine would wrinkle her pretty nose. "I see him everywhere," she said often.

It became, as Sophie feared, a romance. Fantine spent most of her time standing about on the street corners where she was certain he would pass just for the pleasure of pretending not to see him. Sophie grew weary of this. If Fantine became this man's mistress, she would likely leave Sophie and the baby with this room. Because Sophie had no work, Fantine would probably insist on leaving them money, too. Sophie did not want charity. When Fantine went out one evening to see her gentleman, and Sophie took the baby and left.

The girls never saw each other again.

Another month passed. Sophie had returned to the sewers, and still shehad no money. She began to starve again, as did the child. Sophie understood that she had only one choice if she wanted to survive.

In the dark of the night, a shadow began to move in the street. If one were to listen, the muffled sound of sobbing could be heard. The shadow stooped over, placed something on the ground, and hurried away.

A few moments passed, and the cry of an abandoned baby filled the night.


	4. Jules

A/N- This is a fun chapter... It maketh me glad. Also, cyber cookie to anyone who recognizes his friend.

Obsetress- Of course he can't die! I'm just waiting for your Parnasse fic...

nebulia- Take a wild guess... hehe. Isn't he adorable?

ArgentineRose- Javert actually does play a sizable part later on... MUCH later on... And he wanders by every few minutes... But not yet.

Elyse3- I'm so glad I kept her IC... I was a little worried. Yay, now I know for certain that the guillotine thing will work out! I'm excited.

Kang Xiu- Huzzah, it worked! I'm very glad.

H. Sibelius- I enjoy tormenting Tholomyes... he's such a jerk. That's the best I could do here, I'm afraid.

* * *

"Jules! Where are you, little one?"

He tried to ignore the summons of the plump housekeeper and continued his game with Dupont.

"That's your mother, isn't it?" the older boy asked, a wicked grin playing across his face. "You should answer her... Jules."

"Don't call me that. And she isn't my mother."

"Oh, there you are, dear!" the woman said shrilly. She scooped the six-year-old into a crushing hug. "It's time for dinner, you know. Oh, look how dirty you are, my love!"

He squirmed out of her arms. "I'm not hungry."

"But, my child, you haven't eaten since breakfast! Come inside, little one. Monsieur is having his supper in an hour, and you must be out of sight by then. He is entertaining guests tonight."

"That's true," Dupont teased. "You have to eat every day. Listen to your mother."

The housekeeper, Madame Buffon, did not hear the edge to the other boy's words. "Your little friend is right, my dear."

Jules looked at the older boy's face and winced inwardly at the cruel laughter in his eyes. He realized that staying outside with Dupont would just give him a chance to mock him. He wanted to escape the housekeeper's smothering feminine room in the servant's quarters, but he did not want to hear the insults that would come with momentary freedom. "Until tomorrow," he muttered, following Madame Buffon.

"Don't forget to put on your clean frocks, little one!" Dupont called after him.

"He's right, my dear," Madame Buffon nodded.

Jules bit his lip. He did not consider himself a child, and the housekeeper's constant protectiveness insulted him. "Don't call me them names."

"Those names, my boy."

"Stop doing that! I'm not little enough to get called things like 'love' and 'little one'! Dupont thinks I'm a brat!"

"Well," Madame Buffon sighed, "you certainly aren't a ragged urchin like that boy."

"Maybe I want to be a ragged urchin!"

"Jules!"

"Don't call me that! I'm not your fussy little brat! I want to be free like Dupont – to be a gamin! He can do anything he wants, you know. He doesn't have to come in for supper or get called 'dear' in front of his friends! And if he doesn't want people to call him a brat's name, no one will call him a brat's name!"

They had reached the kitchen, and the housekeeper quickly closed the door for fear that the other servants would hear this sudden burst of individuality. Earlier that day the cook had been teasing her about the boy, saying that she could not control him, and Madame Buffon did not want him to know that he had been correct. "What are you talking about?" she hissed nervously.

"I don't want you to call me Jules!"

"And what shall I call you? Jean?"

"Call me by my end name," answered the boy. It seemed he had given this manner some amount of forethought.

"What? The name of the street where I found you, crying all alone, wrapped in a dirty dress and lying on the ground?"

Jules nodded.

"And I suppose you'll want to call me Madame," she mumbled, sounding more than a little hurt.

Ignoring her pained tone, the boy nodded again, adding, "Have I ever called you 'mother'?"

Madame Buffon made a peculiar sound and whispered, "You used to." A moment passed, and she sighed. "Well, I'll call you by that street name if it makes you happy."

"And can I stay out with Dupont instead of going to supper?" the boy asked anxiously.

"No," Madame Buffon said slowly. "No. I don't want you to see that boy anymore. He fills your little head with such silly ideas!" Her cheerfulness had returned. "So you shall stay here with me, and I'll teach you to be a proper little gentleman."

"I can't... You won't let me play with Dupont?"

"Don't fret, my little one! We shall do plenty of things around the house! You will be so happy that you won't even miss that urchin!"

The little boy threw his hands up on a gesture of surrender. The amusing sight was made all the more comical by how seriously he took himself. Madame Buffon laughed and tousled his black hair. "You're adorable, my boy. Eat your supper and hurry along to bed." This said, she turned her back to him and began preparing for the master's dinner party.

The boy stood completely still for a moment. Even his thin chest was motionless as he held his breath, watching his guardian. His dark eyes darted to the closed door, then back to the bustling housekeeper. He took a slow step sideways, glanced at Madame Buffon. She had not turned. The boy threw himself at the door, yanked it open, and dashed out of the house and into the street.

Dupont was sitting on the stoop, flipping a sou into the air with his thumb and catching it on the back of his hand. His playmate came scrambling out of the big door, tripping over Dupont's outstretched legs and landing in a heap. "Goodness, my brat, I thought you were in there eating!" the older boy declared.

"No... I'm never going back there."

The boys heard Madame Buffon calling shrilly after the runaway.

"Come on," said Dupont, seizing Jules's arm. They fled the house. The younger boy watched buildings and alleys fly by. It was not long until nothing was familiar; he was further from home than he had ever been in his memory. "So, Jules," Dupont said with a smile, "welcome to the streets."

"My name's not Jules," he panted.

"Well then, friend, what do you call yourself?"

"By my surname," he said proudly, "Montparnasse."


	5. The Death of a Whore

A/N- I went back in and added half of this chapter a few days ago, so if the beginning is crappy, it's because I haven't had months to tweak it like most of the rest of the story. Also, I tend to use the word "whore" instead of woman of the town or fille publique or whatever, just because I wanna. So... that's not exactly Hugoly, but I just don't care.

AmZ- Snarky is probably the best word I've heard this month. And yay for irony.

nebulia- She left him in the Boulevard Montparnasse, which is, I think, near Austerlitz... I think... not sure. But that's how he got his name. Madame Buffon found him and named him Jules Montparnasse, for whatever reason.

Obsetress- Oh yeah, Norrington's Suicide! It's been a while since you updated, hasn't it? But considering he doesn't like the name Jules, I think he probably stab you to death if you called him Monty. To his face, that is. We can call him that all we want here in the twenty-first century...

Kang Xiu- And the fun part is, he never regrets leaving the poor old woman... baby names bothered him that much. Yet he still keeps company with Dupont, who tends to call him a brat...

H. Sibelius- It's sorta pressure... but mostly corruption. That's a fun phrase... peer corruption...

Bubonic Woodchuck- Ah, you're incredibly correct! But I think you're sorta heading the wrong way as to "which one"... All will be revealed... later.

Elyse3- Jules is Montparnasse, only he doesn't like his first name. Dupont is the other little boy, and you'll figure out who he is eventually. Soour beloved prettyboy'sfull name is Jules Montparnasse, but he kinda drops the first part because he thinks it makes him sound like a brat.

ArgentineRose- The fun part in this whole Dupont business is, for me, that it's kinda obvious, and yet obscure at the same time... I'm not making any sense at all... But you'll see what I mean after a while.

* * *

Montparnasse gaped at the woman on the corner. She smiled at him. "Good evening Dupont. Who is your adorable friend?"

"Good evening, Mamselle Adèle. This little brat calls himself Montparnasse," Dupont answered her. He nudged the younger boy, but Montparnasse did nothing. The low neckline of the woman's dress shocked him and rendered him speechless.

"I see he's never met a whore before," laughed Adèle.

Dupont grinned apologetically and dragged Montparnasse away. The younger boy followed without protest. "What's in your head, my brat?"

Montparnasse finally dared to speak. "Did you see that?" he asked breathlessly. "Did you see?"

"Of course I saw. It's nothing you won't get used to."

"What did she mean?"

Dupont frowned at him.

"She said I have never met a whore."

"Oh," said Dupont. "I suppose you wouldn't know the word. A whore is a woman who wears dresses like that and men pay them. That's how they get money to eat."

"How do I get money to eat?" Montparnasse asked. He had been following Dupont through the streets of Paris for nearly a month, and the older boy had always produced money from some pocket in his tattered shirt for food. However, those marvellous pockets had been empty for at least three days, and Montparnasse was feeling a dull pain in his stomach that he did not like.

"By begging, of course," said Dupont.

"Begging?"

Dupont leaned down and dragged his thumb through the dirt, then rubbed it on Montparnasse's cheek. "That's perfect," he said with a smile. "All you have to do is approach the next bourgeois you see and ask him for money. And look as sorry as you can. Even better, ask a young lady. Young ladies always take pity on hungry children, especially if they have none of their own."

Montparnasse did as he was told and was given three centimes. Holding the coins in his hand, he turned to Dupont and cried, "It worked! Look, do you see? The lady gave me this money!"

"Excellent," Dupont said. He took the coins from Montparnasse and dropped them into his pocket. "Off to the baker's, then."

"Dupont!" protested Montparnasse. "You took my money! That's my money, that is! The lady gave it to me, not to you! It isn't yours to take!"

"Easy, my brat," Dupont laughed.

"Give me the money, then!"

Dupont shook his head. "I'm afraid I can't do that. Look, you aren't old enough to manage this. You wouldn't know where to spend it, or how much you should buy. Come along... Jules."

Fury made blood in Montparnasse's veins turned warm, and he flung himself at the older boy. He ripped at his shirt and found the three coins, then sent a fist into Dupont's face. There was a satisfying cracking sound, and Dupont pushed him away with a yelp of rage. The boys glared at each other. Montparnasse noticed with satisfaction that Dupont's nose was bent in a way it hadn't before, and that blood covered his upper lip.

Dupont narrowed his eyes. "I'll get you," he hissed. "You won't last a week without me or your fat mother! But if you do learn to live in the streets, then you'd better hope I don't catch you alone! I won't forget this!" Having said this, Dupont turned and ran.

When he was gone, Montparnasse looked down at the blood on his knuckles. He had seen blood before, of course. At his former home he had once cut his finger on one of the cook's knives. He had been standing in the kitchen, staring at the shining droplet of crimson against his own pale flesh when Madame Buffon had come into the room and immediately bandaged his hand. But this blood was not his own. Montparnasse slowly turned his fist, watching the light move across the glimmering stain.

Blood was beautiful.

* * *

A few years passed, and little Montparnasse eventually gave up begging, for too often the passing bourgeois scoffed at him or pretended not see. But how can one eat without making money and without begging? The answer is thievery.

Thus Montparnasse's young heart began to be tainted by the black filth of the underworld.

The year was 1821, and the boy was eight years old. His friends were low – urchins and whores – and his values were lower. Despite all this, Montparnasse was happy. To be free, in his eyes, was to be content, and Montparnasse was both of these. He lived in whatever shelter Paris provided, most often under bridges, and befriended any of _les misérables_ who would speak to him. His education came from anyone older that he – mostly the whores. One evening Mamselle Adèle, who had become something of a mentor to him, said happily, "Love, my little Montparnasse, is what keeps you alive. Remember that."

He raised an eyebrow. The word was vaguely familiar to him, but he was not entirely sure of its meaning. "Love?" he repeated.

"Love," Adèle nodded. "It's an amazing feeling!"

"Are you in love, Mamselle Adèle?" one of the other whores asked.

"Céline! Who told you?"

"You did! Look at your burning cheeks! Who's the fellow, ey?"

Adèle brushed a strand of brown hair from her eyes. "He's the most wonderful man..." She continued for a while, but Montparnasse ignored her. He was not yet ten years old, and the fairer sex did not interest him. He looked over the little group of women. Adèle and Céline were intent on their conversation about men. The others were all trying to attract the attention of male passers-by but one. She was watching the exchange between Adèle and Céline with a sad, faraway look in her eyes.

"Me?" Céline said loudly. "I've never loved anyone but my mother." She sensed the other woman's gaze and turned to her. "What about you, Sophie? Have you ever been in love?"

Sophie, who was only a few more than twenty years old, looked at them with haunted dark eyes. She was still beautiful, this wretched girl, but in the miserable way that seems to attract penniless thinkers more than gentlemen. She was thin and pale, her cheeks hollow and her eyes shadowed. Unbearable misery and guilt had destroyed her and created this dejected figure on the street corner. Sickly, slowly starving, and often silent, Sophie walked with a limp from a poorly mended broken bone during her youth.

"I loved," she whispered. "I was young and foolish... self-centred... A stupid girl. I curse myself every day, you know. Each woman who passes me with a baby in her arms makes me want to scream. I hear children's laughter and I weep. I was afraid of death... Ha! How I dreaded the day I would quit this vile world, and now how I wish it! Perhaps then we will meet again, he and I... But would he not curse me for giving him no chance? How stupid I was! I wish... oh, if only..." she trailed off.

The other three looked oddly at her. Céline tittered nervously, but she hurried away when Sophie turned those serious dark eyes to her.

"Honestly, Sophie!" Adèle said lightly. "You've got to cheer up! Who'll want to pay such a gloomy thing for a night of fun?"

"No one," Sophie sighed. "I've had no business for days."

"You look it," said Montparnasse.

Adèle chewed on her lower lip. "When was the last time you ate?"

Sophie shrugged her thin shoulders. "Perhaps a week ago."

The mention of food made Montparnasse's stomach rumble, so he saluted to the women and scampered away.

Sophie's body was found a few days later; she had starved to death on a street corner. When Montparnasse heard this he paused for a moment, but did not think of it again.

After all, what had the death of a whore to do with him?


	6. Blackness Instilled

A/N- This is one of my absolute favourite chapters. Yay! I'm excited. Cyber cookie if you can figure why I named the whores in this chapter what I did. Here's a hint: it has nothing to do with Shakespeare. Nothing.

Elyse3- Vehicular manslaughter? Parnasse would be proud. Hehe... Sorry to distract you, though.

ArgentineRose- Doesn't it, though? "Then, it's nothing Hugo didn't do." I used that phrase myself about a thousand times in writing this story...

H. Sibelius- Aw, thanks muchly. In response to your argument against Raoul, I read it and went to find my copy of the book to back up my own argument, and in the process my brother took over the computer and then I kinda forgot about it... But I'll get there sooner or later, I promise.

nebulia- Peg you to...? I had fun Fantine-izing Sophie and me-izing Adèle. Yes, I'm currently undergoing a spell of infatuation that masquerades as love...

Obsetress- Yay! And... ooh... Now I'll have to find Parnasse... I look forward to your fic/ficlet/Montparnasse thing.

Kang Xiu- I'm glad it worked. And I liked Sophie too... It sucks, killing off characters, but it must be done for the sake of the plot... _-Words of Love flashbacks-_

Mlle Verity- Mm... I think I have an obsession with blood myself... Montparnasse's cut flashback was something that happened to me, actually. Several times.

TheSanityStealingPenguinQueen- Yay, I'm glad you decided to shed your invisibility cloak and review! That kinda thing always makes my day.

* * *

Time passed, as it tends to do, and Montparnasse had reached the age that the whore Adèle had been during their discourse on love. He had begun to notice women, although he would not have admitted it. After all, he was nothing but a filthy boy compared to any of the young men who were often in the company of the women he knew. These gentlemen filled him with a resentment that he did not understand. Montparnasse saw their unstained clothes and their shined shoes and looked at his own ragged garments with bitterness.

It was during one of these moments that Montparnasse again felt that rush of fury he remembered from nine years ago when he had attacked his only friend. Of course it was not as strong, but still he acted without thinking. A young gentleman was hurrying toward a group of whores with his head low and shoulders hunched as if ashamed of his intent. Montparnasse was seated with his back against a lamp pole, and as the man skulked past him one of his legs shot out of its own accord and caused the young gentleman to fall. His purse, which had been in his hand, went hurdling though the air, and Montparnasse stood, retrieved it, and slid it into his back pocket with a swift movement.

The gentleman leapt to his feet and brushed the dust from his clothes. Then, ashamed at having drawn attention to himself, he turned and hastened away, forgetting to search for his purse.

"Montparnasse, you little devil!" Adèle scolded, approaching him. "That fellow was bringing that money to one of us!"

He laughed. "But you can stand about on the street and men will give you money. I have no such luck, myself. If I want to eat, I must take from someone." And he took the purse from his pocket and rifled through its contents: two Louis d'or, several francs, and a few sous. "Look at this, Adèle; I'm rich!" he cried. "Ah, wait, I believe there is more." Montparnasse extracted the last item from the purse and dropped it in surprise. "The devil!"

Adèle bent and retrieved it. "A knife," she said simply, returning it to him.

Nodding, Montparnasse put the knife back into the purse and returned it to his pocket.

"You can peel oranges with it when you go to the theatre," Adèle grinned. "Oh! By the way – "

The knot of girls behind them erupted into laughter, and both Montparnasse and Adèle turned. "What was that about, I wonder," Montparnasse murmured.

"Nothing I'd want you to hear," Adèle said sternly. "They were probably just talking about a man."

"Adèle! Listen, come hear what Léopoldine has said!" one of the whores called. She left the group and joined the two. "She was telling us about a customer she had who..." Adèle silenced the girl with a glare and a glance at Montparnasse.

Montparnasse, however, did not hear what she was saying. He found himself staring at the newcomer, unable to move his gaze from her face. This girl, who he had never seen before, was fair-skinned with auburn hair and piercing blue eyes that were currently appraising him. She grinned shamelessly under his stare. "Ah, look at this! Mamselle Adèle certainly knows how to choose her companions."

"Wh- what do you mean?" Montparnasse stammered.

"Juliette!" Adèle hissed. "This is Montparnasse, the boy I've told you about. I've known him since he was just a child. In fact, I think of him as my own."

Ignoring her, Juliette took his hands in hers and pulled him closer, pressing her body against his. "We could have a good time, if you could spare a sou."

Montparnasse felt his cheeks and ears burning.

"Juliette!"

Montparnasse began to feel dizzy. His ears were ringing and the blood was draining from his flushed face. All he could hear was this girl's soft voice, and all he could feel was the warmth of her body against his. He fumbled in his back pocket and found a franc in the stolen purse, then held it in his open hand for the girl.

"_Montparnasse!_"

Ignoring Adèle's reprimands, Juliette smiled and took the coin. "I'd have settled for a sou." She took his hand and led him away, leaving a mortified Adèle alone.

Montparnasse did not know how long he followed this Juliette before they entered a dilapidated building.

"Juliette!" chuckled an old woman they met on the stairs, "where are you taking that poor gamin?"

"What gamin?" the young whore answered innocently.

"You've got a little boy dressed in rags in your clutches, my girl."

"In my clutches! Such things you say, madame!" Juliette said with a laugh. "No, I haven't any boy. What I have here is a man."

"Fool's talk. You, boy, how old are you?" the woman demanded.

Montparnasse could barely answer. "Fifteen."

"There, see? He's a young gentleman! Only a year apart from me." Juliette declared.

The old woman shook her head. "Is this your first time, my boy?"

Montparnasse nodded.

"Although I can't imagine why," said Juliette. "He's incredibly handsome, isn't he, madame? That Adèle was trying to hide him from the world, you know. She is terribly wicked. With fine clothes this Montparnasse would be the most envied man in Paris. Just look at him."

The old woman squinted. "He is a pretty little boy, I agree to that, but a boy all the same. A mere child."

Juliette turned to Montparnasse and put a small hand on his cheek. Her warm fingers seemed to burn his skin, yet he shuddered with pleasure. "Such pretty locks..." she stroked his hair, "and his dark eyes..."

"Don't start your foolishness out here, girl!" the old woman cried. "Go on, take him to your room!" She shooed them down the hall. Juliette led Montparnasse into a room at the far end of the corridor and closed the door.

Montparnasse looked around. The room was completely bare of any furniture but a mattress lying on the floor under the window.

"Well," Juliette said impatiently, "get those rags off, now! I won't have any customer of mine wearing such horrid things!" He did not move, so she seized his shirt and jerked it up. Montparnasse instinctively raised his arms and allowed her to pull the shirt over his head. She threw it to the side. "Look at you now," she breathed. "Without the rags you make a proper gentleman." Stepping closer to him, Juliette whispered, "Kiss me, then."

Still Montparnasse did not move.

"Goodness, but I've terrified the poor boy," she laughed. And then her hands were on his chest and her breath on his cheek. Juliette's painted lips closed over Montparnasse's, and suddenly he put his arms around her. She pulled away. "Ah, so you can move! Come along," she said, taking him over to the mattress.

And here we shall draw the curtain, leaving the rest for the reader's imagination. In the morning Montparnasse pulled on his dirty old shirt with disgust, curling his lip at his reflection in storefront windows.

With fine clothes, Montparnasse thought, he would be the most envied man in Paris.


	7. Abel Becomes Cain

A/N- Another of my favourite chapters here... It actually might be a bit over-dramatic, but I like it.

Obsetress- I pity him too... Juliette's evil. Yay for your Parnasse thing. I await it eagerly.

Elyse3- Ah, I'm glad you won't have to go Valjean anytime soon. Would the Seine have made him dirtier or cleaner? There's something to mull over...

H. Sibelius- I finally wrote it! Yay... I'm so proud... Your well-written comeback scared me a bit.

Bubonic Woodchuck- Yes, she is. Ahem. But really...

TheSanityStealingPenguinQueen- Yay, the cloak is gone! That makes me quite happy... Reviews are what keep me cheerful at school.

AmZ- Yes, he seems to have a selective memory... And no memory at all for life with Madame Buffon...

ArgentineRose- Our Montparnasse... also known as Monty... is growing up... listening to evil whores... gee.

nebulia- I changed the summary to see if it would bring in any more readers... I'm notsure if it worked... I like that phrase of yours/your friend's.

Kang Xiu- Wow, yay. And coming from you, the queen of believable fanfiction... Now I feel all warm inside...

* * *

"Look at you, my darling," Juliette purred, straightening the collar of Montparnasse's new blouse.

He beamed, looking down at himself. "It's a bit too large."

"It's perfect. Come, let's get it off of you," she grinned. "How much have you brought me today?"

Montparnasse put two centimes in her outstretched hand. "I would have more, but the clothes – "

She pouted a little, but closed her white fingers over the coins. "I trust there will be more tomorrow."

"Of course."

"Then come along." She seized his meticulously tied cravat and pulled him behind her.

Since his first night with Juliette, Montparnasse had looked at everyone differently. He no longer envied rich gentlemen but hated them. Women who glanced at him in the street were admiring him now, where before they had been laughing at him. Boys that were once accomplices had become foolish urchins. Montparnasse himself was no longer a ragged gamin but a penniless young gentleman.

Adèle had also changed in his eyes. Once she had been the voice of authority and compassion, something like the mother he did not remember. When she was disappointed in him Montparnasse had been miserable with guilt until he changed his ways. He had loved and respected her, trusting her blindly.

But Juliette had shown him what Adèle did with the gentlemen who had taken her away from him every night, and how she had always managed to have enough money to feed herself and look after Montparnasse. The realisation that Adèle and Juliette were alike in this way made him nervous in Adèle's presence, and he began to avoid her. She did not help alleviate the tension between them with her obvious disdain for his relationship with Juliette.

Juliette was all that Montparnasse could think of. All of the changes around him, which he hardly noticed, were because of her. He felt that he must be handsome and important for her to care for him as she did, and he wanted others to see them together while wanting to hide at the same time. Nothing seemed to make sense anymore, and all he knew was that he wanted to make Juliette smile, to know that that adored sight existed for him, and for him alone.

Only in his private thoughts was Montparnasse so possessive of Juliette. When the girl was present he found himself behaving as bashfully and childishly as he had their first night together. He wanted to clutch her fiercely to his heart; instead his cheeks burned as she kissed them.

He learned another life lesson quite abruptly when he once came to meet Juliette and found the crowd of girls clustered around the little brunette he had heard called Léopoldine. The girl was wailing hysterically and clutching at her stomach, trying in vain to pull away from the forest of concerned arms that restrained her.

"She is with child," Adèle's voice said softly from behind him.

He turned to face her.

"It's quite a blow, you know. It means she will be out of work for a long time, and then have to find enough food to feed herself and the child."

Montparnasse realised that she had addressed him formally as _vous_. "Adèle... Adèle, look, you're being a fool."

"Oh?" she said quietly,never takingher eyes off ofLéopoldine. "And how is that?"

"It isn't your concern if I wish to be with Juliette, and you needn't be so angry with me. Did you expect me to remain a child forever? I can't stop myself falling in love."

"Love!" she cried. "In love! With Juliette! My boy, you don't know what love is!"

He smirked, for she had said _tu_. "I don't? Am I too young to be in love?"

"That and more! Juliette doesn't love you! And if she did, what would you do? She sells herself, Montparnasse. Would you be content to come to her only on nights that another didn't have more money than you? Don't look at me like that! I know you better than you think, my boy, and I know you'd be more jealous than you could stand! So what will you do? Will you marry her? A little thief boy and a whore! What a pretty pair that would be!"

Montparnassefaltered for a moment. "Love, Adèle! Love! It was you who spoke of it so highly to me when I was a dirty gamin! You must have been my age now, and yet you weren't too young for love!"

"But I was, Montparnasse! Did you ever hear from that man of mine again? Did you? Do you know where he went?"

"Where?"

"That's the beauty of it, child! I don't know myself! He found some rat that charged less than I did, and that was it for me! I never saw him again! Don't you understand? Juliette just wants your money!"

He tried to retort, but the cluster of girls behind him let out a collective scream, and he whirled around.

Pretty little Léopoldine had finally broken free of the others and thrown herself in the path of a stately carriage. He watched transfixed as the horse's hooves shredded and pounded through her little body, and as the wheels rolled over her as though she were nothing but a mound of earth. The driver dropped the reins in surprise, and the terrified horse galloped away. The throbbing of its hooves against the road was the only sound on the street, and it soon died away.

Blood. Montparnasse gazed at the black pools gathering around the unrecognisable remains of the girl's body. Her white skin was covered in spots of crimson, shimmering in the lamplight. He saw the stain spreading across the street, and he felt that same dangerous warmth in his veins.

A familiar face extracted itself from the crowd of girls, and Juliette took his hands in hers. Her mesmerizing blue eyes seemed cold and hard as she sneered at the shock in his eyes. "She was a stupid girl," she said between her teeth. "Have you money?"

Montparnasse nodded, and Juliette pulled him after her. He turned back once to get a final glimpse of the grim scene. The driver was shouting to the people inside his carriage, waving his arms. Several of the girls had fallen to their knees, and the hard lamplight revealed tears on Adèle's pale cheeks.

This Léopoldine had killed herself because shewould soon havea child and no means to support it. There was no way of finding the father, for the girl met a different man every night, as was her profession. The scene arose again in Montparnasse's mind, but this time he saw Juliette's torn body lying on the cobblestones. The thought frightened him.

They reached the little alley leading to her building, and Montparnasse stopped. "Juliette?"

"What's wrong, darling?" she asked, turning to him with a smile.It seemed that the horrific suicide had had no effect on her.

He bit his lower lip, hesitating. "Do you – Am I any different from your other customers?"

"Are you...? Oh, my heart, has wicked Adèle been poisoning you against me? I'm sure you don't believe all the silly things she says."

"But am I? You didn't answer me."

"My love..." she protested.

He started and seized her arms. "Love? You love me, then?"

Juliette scowled at him, but then studied his eager face. She looked at his pocket, in which he still kept the purse he had stolen on the day they met. Her eyes met his, and she shrugged her shoulders. "Of course I do."

Montparnasse sighed. He felt as though something heavy had been lifted from his shoulders, and relief flooded through his body. Juliette did love him, and not just the money he gave her. Perhaps Adèle was simply jealous – yes, that was it! Hadn't she practically told him that she had wanted a relationship like the one he had with Juliette? But Adèle's hopes had been crushed when that man abandoned her. She no longer believed in love.

Looking at the beautiful creature leading him down this silent street, Montparnasse knew that he could let that happen to her. "Juliette?"

She stopped again. "Well?"

"Juliette, you really love me?" he asked again.

"Yes. Can we go now?"

Montparnasse reached into his pocket and pulled out the purse. He opened it and counted the money, pushing the knife to one side. He did not have much.

"Marry me, Juliette," he said bluntly. When her eyes widened, he continued quickly. "I know I haven't much money, but I do know that I love you. We will always be together, and I'll take up an honest job to make sure that you eat every day. I only have three sous here, along with a centime, and I meant to give you that tonight. But if we are married I'll give you everything I earn, and – "

Juliette cut him off with a harsh laugh. "You already give me everything you earn!"

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"You stupid boy! God, but I can't listen to your babbling for another minute. I don't love you, and you don't love me! You give me money and I give you pleasure. We have a deal, boy, with no room for your ridiculous plans for marriage!"

Again that rush of fury, now familiar, but neverbefore this heated. Again Montparnasse was not sure of what he was doing. The purse fell onto the street, the coins inside spillingacross the pavement. Somehow the knife was in his hand.

Juliette's leer faded into uncertainty. "What are you doing?" He made no answer. "Montparnasse?"

Montparnasse looked at the sharp edge of the knife in his hand. "You lied to me. You took my money every day and let me believe that you loved me."

"Montparnasse! I didn't – I didn't know that you – "

She continued to fumble over a defense. Montparnasse had never seen her so helpless; knowing he had this power over Juliette made him feel incredible. She was afraid of him.

"Listen, my love, be sensible! I– "

She did not finish the sentence. The fifteen-year-old sprang forward, seized her wrist and forced her to turn her back to him. Montparnasse pressed the knife against her throat and listened with vicious delight as she choked, trying without success to pry his hand away from her neck. His fingers were wet with her blood, and he felt her heave a last sob as he let the blade slide through her skin. He released her with a jerking motion, and she crumpled to the ground.

Juliette's teeth were stained red; blood trickled from the corner of her mouth. Those incredible blue eyes stared lifelessly at the stars. Her neck was covered in crimson, and the street under her head was turning black. The edge of the knife glistened.

Montparnasse looked down at this girl and felt no horror in what he had done. He watched the blood bubbling up out of the wound and trickling down her little throat.

Then, on an impulse, he knelt and retrieved the coins he had dropped, pressing them into her palm. Then Montparnasseleaned down, gatheredJuliette's limp body into his arms, and kissed her cold lips.


	8. An Appetite for Worse

A/N- Here's a little cheerful break from the angstiness. Also, I must apologise for the screwed up spacing in the last chapter... I have no idea what happened there. Anyway, this is my most researched chapter. Yes, finally the Patron-Minette comes into the picture! How exciting. So there's a crapload of argot... sorry 'bout that. Some of it isn't translated because Montparnasse doesn't understand it, thus you don't get to either (unless you're a Hugo dork like me and you understand it anyway...) plus some is self-explanatory.

nebulia- Whoohoo... would he be Montparnasse the Ripper? Jules the Ripper?

ArgentineRose- Muaha... this is /my/ version of the story, in which he's really not such a bad guy, he just has issues...

Obsetress- Sadly, this chapter is nowhere near as much fun as the last, but it gets better from here on out. Sort of.

AmZ- Hmm... Well, you'll notice she wasn't very happy about it...

H. Sibelius- Yay, I'm achieving the wannabe Hugo thing! That's what I'm going for. Oh, and in TNP you asked if you could do a similar thing with LM chars doing POTO... Go for it.

Elyse3- Yes, I wrote that chapter just to be shocking... Irritation and boredom in French class produce some weird stuff... Glad to see it's believable, though.

notthatlucky- Ooh... is it wrong that I'm proud of the ability to give you nightmares? As to _tu_ and _vous_, one is familiar and the other is formal. You'd be more likely to call a friend _tu_ and a stranger _vous_. I don't know about the Spanish thing... I speak Spanish like your Patria Patterson. Do-o you-o know-o English-o?

Bubonic Woodchuck- Nope... turns out we wouldn't want to be her. I love 'Parnasse... _–wanders away-_

TheSanityStealingPenguinQueen- Ah yes, the sun is shining, birds are chirping, and Montparnasse is cutting throats!

Kang Xiu- Huzzah! I was waiting for your review before I typed the next chapter... Not entirely sure why... But yay!

Montparnasse never saw Adèle again. After Juliette's murder he had fled the streets where he was raised, afraid that one of the girls would turn him in to the authorities.

The sight of Juliette's had blood changed him. He no longer picked pockets, finding that attacking a man and demanding money seemed to feed a burning hunger inside him. The fear in his victims' eyes satisfied that appetite for a while, but it would always returned with renewed fierceness. The knife that had drawn Juliette's blood cut many more throats in the following months.

It was during this time that Montparnasse fell in with a group far different from any he had known before. Night had fallen, and he had just left his bridge in search of a few sous.

"That's him. That's the _mion_," said a nasal voice from the shadows.

Montparnasse heard this argot – _mion_, or child – and immediately respected its owner. Most who used argot used it so that police or passers-by would not understand their conversation, thereby keeping secrets from righteous ears. Montparnasse himself did not speak it, but he understood it from lurking about the Temple, where argot was spoken more often than unadorned French.

The boy thought himself a more capable outlaw even than the owner of the voice. He had killed a man and robbed his wardrobe to replace the bloodstained suit he had worn the day that Juliette had turned down his love; any money he came by was stolen; and he tended to prowl the streets at night, returning to his bridge during the day. Could a sixteen-year-old fall in with a man as professional as the owner of that voice? A hand grabbed his shoulder, and Montparnasse spun around, pulling out his knife and wrestling the stranger to the ground in one swift movement.

The man he had just attacked did not shrink away from the blade. In fact, he did not seem worried in the least. He simply twisted Montparnasse's wrist, forcing him to drop the weapon, and shoved the boy off of him.

"That's the _môme_ alright," another voice laughed. The burly black man who had spoken helped the thinner fellow to his feet.

Montparnasse retrieved his knife and held it ready. "What do you want?"

The first man, brushing dirt from his suit, answered in argot that Montparnasse vaguely understood, "We need you, _mion_. We've a friend who was _marroné_ on the stairs, see and – "

"_Décarrons_," the black man interrupted. "It's not safe _icigo_."

"What did he say?" Montparnasse asked.

But the thin man was glancing about the square. "Ah," he smiled, pointing to a man standing on the other corner, "a _coqueur_. Hogu is right; we'll be _emballé icicaille._"

Montparnasse stared at them, then at the man on the other side if the street. "That's a policeman?"

"Come along, _môme_," the man called Hogu sighed, seizing his shoulder and pulling him away. "_Décarrons_."

"Do you know that you aren't speaking the same language?" Montparnasse demanded. "As for you, Monsieur LeMince, I can understand you. But your comrade Hogu – "

"New argot," the man responded shortly. "_Icicaille_."

The three stopped. "Good," Hogu nodded. "The _cognes_ keep an eye out, don't they?"

Montparnasse glared at the man, exasperated. What did they want, and what was the black man saying? He had never heard of new argot, and he hardly understood the normal variety spoken by the thinner man.

"Well, _mion_, it won't be long. We've brought you _icicaille_ for a reason. You do this one task for _nousiergue_, and you might be able to become a _galifard_."

Montparnasse considered this. "Why would you want me for an apprentice?" he asked, carefully hiding his anticipation.

"We've _loché_ your name, _mion_. After the _guedoze_ of the _mènesse_ you weren't simply an _affureur_. How many _dabs_' _colabres_ have you cut for _fiques_?"

"Are you mocking me?"

Hogu made a gesture of impatience. "Enough, Babet! Just _bonnis_ the _môme_ why we brought him _icigo_ and _décarrons_! If Gueulemer is _malade_ he'll need help to draw his _crampe_. Have you the _tortouse_?"

Babet nodded. "What Hogu means is that our comrade Gueulemer is in the _collège_, and we need another _orgue_ – or _mion_ – who isn't a _taffeur_ to unscrew the _cocos_ of some of the _griviers_. You do that, and the _griviers_ will _cribler_, no? That's when Hogu and I go in and get Gueulemer."

Montparnasse studied them suspiciously. "I kill this soldier, you two get your friend out of prison, and then you will leave me to be arrested."

"_Môme_," Hogu said solemnly, "I swear on the _meg_ and the _mariol_ that if you help us with this you'll never be a _lartif rat_ again. We'll _maquiller_ an _orgue_ out of you – teach you the _trus_."

The boy looked back at him just as seriously. "I don't know what you are saying, but count me in."

The men nodded and turned, disappearing into the shadows with Montparnasse at their heels. None of them spoke until they reached the prison. Babet pointed out two soldiers to Montparnasse, and he disappeared with Hogu around the side of the building. Montparnasse watched the soldiers for a moment, waiting for the signal. It came – a vaguely unnatural birdcall – and he dashed forward, plunging his knife into the first man's stomach, and was in the process of yanking it back out when he felt the cold steel of a carbine pressed against his ear.

"Drop the knife, boy," a voice hissed.

Montparnasse's mind raced. Should he surrender? The police would surely condemn him, though, once they found out about the bourgeoisie he had killed – and Juliette. But those men, Babet and Hogu, had sworn to "teach him the _trus_," whatever that meant. It sounded promising. Anything was better than death at the hands of the law. He returned to the matter of the firearm being held against his head. He could let go of his knife, leave it in this corpse, and go quietly with the lawman – But why co-operate when causing trouble was so much simpler?

"Drop your weapon!" the soldier repeated.

Montparnasse sighed dramatically. "I can hardly do that, citizen, as it seems to be lodged in your comrade's gut."

"Being smart, eh?" said the soldier. "What's your name, boy?"

"Montparnasse," was the confident reply.

He heard the soldier start. "You? You're Montparnasse?" he paused, and the boy imagined that he was being scrutinised. "You are nothing but a child!"

He cocked the carbine, a sound that echoed terribly in the quiet street.

"Oh," Montparnasse smirked, trying to hide his shaking hands, "so my name is known?"

"It shan't be after tonight," the soldier laughed.

Montparnasse clamped his eyes shut and held his breath, waiting for the ball to burst through his skull. He had not lived long, but he had enjoyed himself. Perhaps it was better to die here, still young and handsome, than to grow old and ugly. Montparnasse steeled himself.

The gunshot shattered the stillness.

The soldier's blood splattered across Montparnasse's cheek, and he heard a muffled thud as the man collapsed. The livid boy slowly got to his feet, the knife in his shaking hand.

"Not bad for a _galifard_," Babet smiled, a smoking pistol in his hand.

Montparnasse let out a long, shuddering sigh. Babet and Hogu stood several feet away, accompanied by a hugely muscled man and a vaguely discernible shadow.

"_Mion_," Babet continued, "this is Gueulemer... he's Claquesous... you already _colombes_ Hogu."

"So you are a street gang?"

"You could say that," Babet chuckled.

A stranger's voice spoke – the voice of a ventriloquist. "We are the _sorgue_."

Assuming that this comment had come from the shadow called Claquesous, Montparnasse rolled his eyes at him. "That's good, but I still don't understand your new argot."

"I like this _mion_," Babet grinned. "He's no _taffeur_."

"We saw him with the _cogne_. There's a bit of _mariol_ under this _môme_ and his _frusques_," Hogu responded quietly.

Montparnasse listened to this discussion, wiping the soldier's blood off of his face with hand. He swore aloud when he saw that his hat and jacket were stained as well. "It's terribly hard to stay clean this way," he muttered, smoothing his shirt and turning up a corner of his hat in the style of the year.

"_Mion_ – Montparnasse," Babet said aloud, "would you like to join _nousiergue_?"

"I? Join you? J- Joking aside," he stammered, studying their faces.

"Use your _sorbonne_, _mion_! Do we look like we would play the _harnache_ for a little rat like you?" replied Babet impatiently.

"Then... Well, of course! Of course I will!" he answered eagerly. "But Monsieur L'Ombre – Claquesous – did you say that you are the _sorgue_? _Sorgue_ as in _sorgabon_, good night?

Babet nodded.

"You call yourselves 'night'?"

"Why would we call _nousiergue_ anything? We are _colombé_ without a name." Babet glanced warily up at the silent prison. "Come along," he said softly, and the four men left, Montparnasse at their heels.

"Yes, but a name is more interesting. It would give the police something to call you by. _Sorgue_ is used so often, you know."

"And what is more fitting?" Hogu asked irritably.

The sixteen-year-old frowned in thought. "Well," he said at length, "something a little more eerie, perhaps."

Babet fought back a smiled that was not lost on Montparnasse. It was rather odd for a boy not yet twenty to try to think of a name for a group of robbers and murderers.

"What is more eerie than the _sorgue_?" growled the ventriloquist.

"Well, consider this: morning."

"Ah, yes, morning!" Babet cried. "Absolutely terrifying!"

The others chuckled darkly. "Do you want my _lingre_ in your _colas_, _môme_?" Hogu demanded.

"I don't know," Montparnasse sighed. "What did he say, Monsieur LeMince?" he asked Babet.

"I believe you are bothering him, _mion_."

"Still, _patron-minet_ is a good name," Montparnasse sulked. "Morning, the time we must disappear."

Babet smiled again; no one else said anything but Gueulemer, who had not yet spoken.

"Did he say 'patron-minette'?"

Montparnasse started to correct him, but changed his mind. "That's right; I said patron-minette. Sounds fearsome, doesn't it?"

"Hardly," the man snorted. "It'll never catch on."


	9. The Effects of Boredom

A/N- Okay, I don't do argot anymore after that. If you think I need to, you can review and say so, but I'll probably ignore you cos I'm quite lazy. Anyway... Voici Eponine! I think that's proper French... dunno. But yay, finally we get to the good part! She might seem a little OOC to start, but it was a year or two before Monsieur Marius and all, so I think I can get her to our own dear psycho stalker chick by that time.

Elyse3- Huzzah for Dorian Gray! I just read that book recently, and I was like... This is just like that story I wrote... except better. Man, that's a great book.

Obsetress- If I didn't already know what it meant I wouldn't look it up either. Power to lazy people!

TheSanityStealingPenguinQueen- Only twenty? Ah, well...

nebulia- I think I like Jules the Ripper... sadly, I don't know enough about Jack the Ripper to take a stand on whether or not I like _him_... I might, though...

AmZ- Really? Hey, I love Claquesous. Not as much as Babet, mind you, and neither of them even compare with my love for Parnasse, but sure, Claquesous is definitely one of my four favorite characters from the gang. Heh.

H. Sibelius- And I look forward to it, too. Then again... whatever happened to The Spoken? That was some brilliant ficcery, that was.

ArgentineRose- Ah, but he stabbed the dab as the poor chap was leaving his house, thus he could go in and steal the frusques from his closet. Sounds stupid, but it works for me.

Kang Xiu- Interesting the incredible response Claquesous got! I thought he was used quite often... Ah well. Yay, I'm loved!

notthatlucky- Oddly enough, I understood that perfectly. I miss le angst too, but it'll be back shortly... wait for the fluff... Fluffy... Oh, now I've done it.

* * *

By the next year, 1830, the Patron-Minette was indeed feared, as were Claquesous, Babet, Gueulemer, and Montparnasse, its chief members. Montparnasse had quickly gained enough respect from the others that he was no longer called _mion_ or _môme_, but was considered an equal. On most nights the four could be found gathered outside a house with _mastic_ and crowbars in hand, ready to pick up a bit of extra money and, in Montparnasse's case, clothes.

With some of the money he was earning, Montparnasse had bought a little room with a real mattress on the floor and a wardrobe in the corner that was rapidly filling with suits of the finest cut. He was proud of his extensive wardrobe, aware that he had a grander selection of clothes than most Parisian men did.

On nights that the Patron-Minette did not have a job, Montparnasse preferred working alone to bringing women back to his room. He avoided whores with a sort of horror, desperate to forget his childhood.

It was dusk, _entre chien et loup_, and Montparnassewas readying himself for a night spent without a job. He admired his own reflection in a store window.Everything was perfect:the waist of his tailcoat, the tilt of his hat, the curl of his hair. He smiled to himself. For the first time in nearly three months he was truly happy.

An older man with a beard sneaked out of an alley, his face blacked with soot. His skulking manner caught Montparnasse's attention. The young man watched him quietly, then pulled the rose from his buttonhole and held it in his mouth, a motion he used to convey to any of the rest of the gang not to bother him; he was working. Walking silently behind the bearded man, Montparnasse waited for the right moment to attack.

The old man turned down a smaller alley, and the younger sprang on him and pinned him to the ground, a knee in his chest. "I've got no money," the bearded man panted. "Please, don't hurt me! I have a family that depends on me, and without me they would starve!"

"Don't tell me lies, old man," Montparnasse said. "Your purse."

The victim made a gesture of helplessness. "I'm not telling lies! I have a wife and two daughters!"

"I meant about the money. Your face is blacked; you've been robbing someone."

"No, I haven't! There was nothing doing there!"

"That's what I always hear," said Montparnasse. He turned his knife so that the blade caught the light, then looked back down at his victim. The fear in the old man's eyes would normally have given Montparnasse that vicious satisfaction he had grown accustomed to, but this evening something was different. Montparnasse was bored.

The old man began to tremble. "I can prove it to you! Let me show you my home!"

"I don't care about your home."

"Perhaps I can find something there for you. I may have a few francs or a crust of bread."

Montparnasse realised that this man was telling the truth. The sight of a knife usually drove even the most stubborn of victims to honesty. He contemplated his options.

He could kill the old man for no money, let the man go, or follow him. To let him go was hardly a choice, for it would not be long until most of the underworld of Paris heard that Montparnasse had gone soft. He considered cutting the old man's throat, but he was in a generous mood to-night, and he did not want blood on his clothes. In any case, this would be something interesting to do, better than the routine he had followed for so long.

"Monsieur?" the old man said tentatively.

Montparnasse got to his feet. "Show me."

The old man led Montparnasse down several twisting alleys and into a familiar section of town. The thief realised that they would soon pass his old home, the bridge where he had stayed until he had joined the Patron-Minette.

As his old bridge came into view, Montparnasse could make out a few blankets and a form crouched under it. Someone had already moved into his vacated place.

"There," the old man said. Montparnasse glanced at him; he was pointing to the bridge. "That's where we live. Come, I'll show you."

They went down the little incline and stopped near the creature huddled under the bridge. Their approach caused the form, completely shrouded in a ragged quilt and shadows, to ask in a gravelly voice, "Who is there, my heart?"

Montparnasse squinted and finally discerned the outline of what must have been a troll. The man smiled at it and said, "Come meet this young man."

Out from under the bridge stepped a huge, brutish creature with coarse red hair and a thin moustache. Montparnasse, reminded of Gueulemer, took a step back. The man laughed. "This is my wife."

Montparnasse started, and he began to ask the old man if he was sure he had married a woman. He was cut off, however, when something crashed into him from behind, knocking him over. Montparnasse landed hard on the ground.

He rolled over and saw two young girls, both wearing rags. The one who had run into him muttered an apology and offered a hand to help him up. He sneered at her and sprang to his feet.

"My daughters," the old man said penitently.

Montparnasse brushed off his jacket, looking the girls over. The younger, with tangled brown hair, had gone over to the she-troll, apparently her mother, and was clinging to her skirt, staring at him in fascination. Her worshipful gaze made him uncomfortable, so he turned back to the other.

The girl who had knocked him down was also staring at him, but here he felt as though he was being appraised rather than venerated. She stood with her legs apart and her hands on her bony hips, wearing nothing but a stained and ragged shirt, a torn skirt held up by a piece of twine, and no shoes. When she smirked defiantly at him he noticed with repulsion that she was missing a tooth. She was the epitome of misery, and for this reason he could not take his eyes off her.

The old man misunderstood the fascination. "You like my daughter, monsieur?" he asked, advancing toward them. He took the girl's arm in his and pulled her closer to Montparnasse, placing her hand in his. "I may not be able to offer you money, but I can offer you what I do have. After all, you have spared my life." With that, he pushed them both to the road, then returned to the bridge, leaving them alone with a final greasy smile.

As soon as he was out of sight, the girl jerked her hand out of Montparnasse's. Forgetting that he had been about to do the same thing, Montparnasse raised his eyebrows indignantly. "Why'd you do that?"

"I don't want to be with you," she said matter-of-factly, wiping her hand on her dirty shirt. "I don't even know you."

Montparnasse could not help but take offence. It bothered him that any girl, especially one as wretched as this, would turn him down.

The girl realised this. "Oh, you think I would throw myself at your feet just because you have a pretty face and fine clothes? Not me. You've got to be more than just a very pretty boy to win my heart, monsieur."

There was a moment of silence as the two frowned at each other, Montparnasse shocked that this girl, so low in the world, had such broad ideas, and the girl offended by his disbelief in her ability to resist him.

"How old are you?" he asked.

"I've got fourteen years," she said proudly, "fifteen in a month or so."

Montparnasse blinked. She was only three years younger than he was, and she did not yet realise that a girl such as she could not be so choosy in men. "Well, you don't want me, and I certainly don't want you. Go on back to your bridge now," he said.

For the first time Montparnasse saw the resolute and determined look in her eyes fade. "I can't. Papa thinks I'm off wooing you, and getting you to like him. He'd be furious if I went back now."

"Why does your father want me to like him?"

At this the girl laughed. "You're Montparnasse, aren't you? Of the Patron-Minette? Papa thinks he is good enough to be one of you, what with his stupid letters and false names," she answered bitterly.

"Hm," Montparnasse muttered, more than a little flattered, "I must get used to being recognised." He looked at the girl kindly. "You can't return home?"

She shook her head. "Don't worry, though. I suppose I'll just... go somewhere..."

"Where? Do you have somewhere to go? Come with me," Montparnasse said impulsively.

"I've already told you – "

"Not for that," he laughed. "Heavens, not for that. If your father is so set on being friendly with the Patron-Minette, he'll have to start somewhere. Just imagine how he will react when you tell him that you went with Montparnasse on his rounds and met the rest of the gang."

Her face brightened, though she tried to hide it. "Well, I've nothing else to do for the next few hours," she sighed. "Very well, Monsieur Montparnasse, that can be done."

He instinctively offered her his arm, but when she linked hers through he winced at the thought of her dirty rags touching his meticulously clean jacket. Making an attempt to think on something else, he said pleasantly, "Well, mademoiselle, you seem to know my name, but I'm afraid that I don't know yours."

She smiled blithely, and the sight of her broken tooth made Montparnasse feel slightly sick. Why had he offered to amuse her? Why did he care of her father beat her? He thought about what she had said earlier. If her father idolised him and was so desperate to join the Patron-Minette that he would offer his eldest daughter to a near stranger, perhaps he would be a beneficial addition to the gang. It was only a few hours, after all. This poor girl needed someone to be kind to her, and it seemed she thought him famous.

"My name is Eponine," she answered, still smiling. "Eponine Jondrette."


	10. Stubborn and Moreso

A/N- Hm... this is sort of an expansion on Montparnasse's attitude toward Ponine... as you will blatently see.

Elyse3- Good luck on that essay! And I'm glad the chapter title didn't go unnoticed... it's ridiculous how much time I spend just naming the daggum chapters. I'm so OCD...

H. Sibelius- Ooh, I'm glad it isn't dead... The Spoken, I mean. Heh... _-has nothing else to add-_

Obsetress- Hey, I laugh like that too! I have this evil squirrel laugh type giggle thing that's really high-pitched that I can't help but let out when I hear things like Steve Barton's "Bravo" and the idea of Fluffy in a dress... things like that. What amI talking about? Erm...

AmZ- Heh... When Eponine becomes Shirley Temple, it might be time to give your liver a break. Just a thought. Although your review did crack me up.

nebulia- Me too... I've been randomly rereading Hugo, and I think what he was trying to say with that "hips like a woman" thing is that Montparnasse had a cute butt. Really. And the whole "coat tightly fitted at the waist"... I'm excited by this revelation o' mine.

Cecilia Carlton- Don't worry, it's not just in your head. Montparnasse has a motive... or so he thinks. I worked on evening it out a bit more in this chapter.

Mlle Verity- Ah, yes... Sometimes dear ol' Parnasse seems a good deal smarter... or at least, more practical... than our dear Enj... "Overthrow the government," geez. Just ignore me, I'm exhausted.

Kang Xiu- Huzzah! About ages, Cosette was really only, what, fifteen? Sixteen? And Marius was, like, twenty-something. I was kinda shocked to see that... those gals are 'bout my age, and already they're "chatting" with Montparnasse or meeting their true loves... _-melodramatic sigh-_

* * *

"Goodness, Montparnasse, I thought you could pick them better than that," Babet sneered.

The excitement in Eponine's eyes faded. "I see," she muttered, sliding her arm out of his and stepping away.

Montparnasse was irritated at this. Who was Babet to mock his choice in company? It was true that he was simply using the wretched girl to investigate her father as an addition to the Patron-Minette, but if she had actually been his mistress Montparnasse had no doubt that Babet would have even then made this comment.

"Babet," he said tersely, "a word." He pulled the other man away from Eponine, who had not moved.

"What's in your head, Montparnasse? That must be the sorriest creature I've ever seen, and you come in here as though you've a little bourgeois on your arm."

Montparnasse inclined his head. "She is sorry, I know, but her father is a thief. A snivelling wretch, yes, but he has some knowledge of the trade. He uses argot."

"So to convince her father to join us you've decided to take _that_ as your mistress?"

"No, listen. I've nothing to do; there's no job to-night. I tried to rob the father, but he had no money and showed me his place, under my old bridge. Her mother is an ogre, I've no idea as to what is wrong with her sister, and when she arrived the father just threw her at me and slammed the door."

"I thought you said they were under a bridge," Babet said, raising an eyebrow.

"But you take my meaning."

"That doesn't explain why you didn't send her home."

Montparnasse shrugged. "Her father wants to join us. If he's so ready to serve that he sends his own child away with a perfect stranger, particularly one that threatened to kill him less than an hour earlier, he may have a head for the business."

Babet glanced over at Eponine, his lip curling. "What are you going to do with that, then?"

"I told her she could meet the rest of the Patron-Minette."

"And you want us to treat the wench well?"

"Yes," Montparnasse said firmly. "You could start by thinking of her as a young lady."

Babet raisedboth eyebrows. "You're serious, are you? Ah, well, it will make for an interesting change. Tell me, though – why so kind to this girl? And you can stop telling me that garbage about her father."

Montparnasse shrugged again, and they returned to Eponine, who was picking at a fingernail and pretending she hadn't been listening in on their conversation. After Babet tipped his hat and left them, she looked up at Montparnasse. "My mother is an ogre?" she asked, grinning.

He started to deny it, but she laughed and made a motion as if brushing it away. "That may be the best description I've heard thus far."

As the two walked through the shady streets of Paris that night, Montparnasse thought back on Babet's question. Why so kind to this girl? He had been telling himself it was because he wanted her father in the gang, but did he really? He imagined that hardened old face, blacked with soot and covered in a tangled beard. He remembered the sheer terror the sight of his knife had given the man. No, in truth Montparnasse did not care whether old Jondrette joined them or not.

So why had this girl inspired his pity, buried since his first murder? He told himself that it was because she had known his name, because her father and sister had seemed so pleased by his presence. Perhaps these things contributed to his behaviour, but still he knew that there was more.

When Eponine had said that she was not interested in him, Montparnasse had been first shocked, then impressed at her stubbornness. A part of him, and a large part at that, was determined to make her change her mind. She said that he was only a pretty face; Montparnasse heard a challenge to prove her wrong.

At this point Eponine distracted him, interrupting his thoughts. She had been skipping at his side for the past few moments, humming off-key. His silence seemed to bother her, for she plucked the rose from his buttonhole and dashed several paces ahead, turning back to send him a silent challenge with her dancing eyes. Montparnasse bit the inside of his cheeks to fight back a smile. "I don't frolic."

Eponine sighed, letting him catch up with her. "You should. Enjoy yourself." With that she tucked the rose behind her ear.

* * *

The sky began to lighten, and the two returned to the Jondrette bridge. Eponine had been light-hearted and cheerful throughout the night, leaving Montparnasse's side to run ahead, then pausing as he caught up. She sang, twirled, and teased him, trying to make him laugh while he was determined to stay disdainful.

Now, however, as they approached her home, Eponine began to lag behind, stopping every few paces to comment on the most common of sights. When the bridge came into view she sighed as if her heart would break. "I suppose you have to go."

Her father scuttled out from the shadows of the bridge, a cringing smile twisting across his face. "My dear Eponine," he said, his voice dripping with sweetness, "and Monsieur. I trust my daughter pleased you? After all, it is almost morning."

Montparnasse frowned down at the old man. It was obvious that Jondrette was putting on a sickening charade in order to impress him, and he found this behaviour offensive. Montparnasse did not mind thieves or murderers, considering that he was one. Lawbreakers did not bother him, nor did the loose lifestyles of his friends. The only vice that made Montparnasse furious was deception. He wanted to know how a person felt, not how it was more profitable to feel. If this father hated his daughter, he did not want to see a sham display of affection. Nothing made him angrier thansomeone who lied about his feelings.

"Monsieur?"

Ignoring him, Montparnasse turned to Eponine. "What are your plans for tomorrow evening, Mademoiselle Eponine?" he asked courteously.

The old man's eyes widened with a brutish delight.

"Nothing at the moment, Monsieur Montparnasse," replied Eponine flippantly, catching on to his little game.

Montparnasse nodded, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "In that case, mademoiselle, would it be entirely inappropriate to ask to see you again?"

He sensed that Jondrette was on edge, and he relished the power he was exercising over the old man. Eponine was enjoying herself as well; she purposely provoked him by pretending to be unsure of her answer. "I don't know, Monsieur Montparnasse," she said gravely. "I would have to ask permission of my father, first."

"My dear sir," Jondrette said quickly, pressing his palms together and leaning toward them, "you may take my darling child from me whenever the need for company strikes you."

Montparnasse did not even glance at him. "What does your father say?" he asked Eponine.

Eponine smiled, and Montparnasse quickly glanced away from her missing tooth. "I think he is willing, if I am."

Jondrette glared at her, his eyes flashing dangerously. Montparnasse could not help but wonder if he had allowed this game to go a step too far. "And are you willing?"

She nodded.

"Good," Montparnasse said firmly. "I shall be here around dusk. Good morning, mademoiselle, monsieur."

He made his way back up the embankment, questioning whether he had made the right choice in planning to return.

"Well," he heard Jondrette say, "what happened, girl?"

Montparnasse paused, listening in.

"Nothing."

"I insist that you tell me."

"And I shan't tell."

He heard the sharp sound of a slap, and Eponine cried out. "Let that teach you to give me your lip, slut!"

Montparnasse bit his lip and continued on his way.


	11. The Return of the Shadow

A/N- Gracious, but this chapter gave me grief. I realise Montparnasse hasn't been as much fun since he met Ponine, so I'm working on that... I should have put those last two chapters together, into one...

AmZ- Argh, I know... In my rough draft it was even worse, and I'm trying to fix it but it's kind of hard... The boy has a mind of his own, and he just won't co-operate with me. _-grumbles-_

Obsetress- Hoo boy, that little rhyme brings back some... bothersome... memories... I don't get why Hugo has an obsessive prettyboy spooning with a hideous louse... But I'm working on it.

Elyse3- Yeah, it's bugging me like crazy. This chapter is confusing, and I had to just up and delete what I had about three times and I'm still not happy with it... Hopefully after the next chapter it'll be smooth again.

Kang Xiu- Yay, I'm glad. I'm starting to get kinda mad at it, though. I think it'll work out in a chapter or two.

nebulia- Yay for angry Thénardier! He's a slimy little weasel, isn't he?

Mlle. Verity- _-salutes-_ I shall do that. Feel lucky and get some sleep, I mean.

Aquamirajie-Tararei- Heavens, what a username you have there, m'dear. All my non-Raoul-ified stories? Do I have that many non-Raoul-ified stories? Hmm... _-huggles Raoul-_ The poor dear.

X

After meeting Éponine, Montparnasse returned to his room and threw himself onto the mattress, falling asleep without undressing. When he awoke at dusk he scowled at his wrinkled clothes and quickly changed into a different suit. He had not been notified of a job planned for that evening, and he assumed he would spend another night working alone. As he was stuffing the wrinkled pants and jacket into his wardrobe and contemplating getting rid of them instead of having them pressed, he noticed mud caked along the cuffs of the pants. He scowled again. Where had he gone the night before that he could have got his clothes so dirty?

It was only then that he remembered Éponine, her father, and his own promise to return the following evening. Montparnasse groaned and buried his face into his hands. What had he been thinking? He had been in an odd mood, he knew that, and her father had angered him. How, then, had he come to be here, dreading another night with the wretched Jondrette daughter?

To be honest, it was not Éponine's company he dreaded. The girl had actually amused him the night before, making him smile once or twice against his own will. This is what he did not want – to grow to appreciate the girl. How would it look for Montparnasse, the devil's playmate, as some of the police had come to call him, to allow such a hideous thing to befriend him? He clenched his jaw at the thought. It would ruin everything he had worked for these last few years.

His mind set, Montparnasse tugged on his boots. He would not return to the Jondrette bridge. He could not risk sullying his reputation as a gentleman by keeping company with beggars like Éponine.

And yet, he had made an appointment, given his word to return. How could he call himself a gentleman if he did not keep his word? It would not be long before Jondrette found a way to join the Patron-Minette, and Montparnasse did want his comrades to hear ill of him.

Montparnasse took his knife from the pocket of the wrinkled suit and looked at the edge of the blade. He was being ridiculous. Who cared if Babet and the rest heard he had broken one appointment with one beggar? He could not risk his reputation for Éponine.

Satisfied, Montparnasse nodded at his reflection in the mirror. He would not return for Éponine. Let her rot alone; let her father beat her until she bled. He did not care.

He set out then, sneaked a rose out of an old flower vendor's basket, and tucked it into his buttonhole. Perhaps to-night he would cut the throat of some bourgeois, or... He reached into his pocket for his knife, but it was not there. He had left it on the floor by the wardrobe. Montparnasse turned around with the intention of returning to his room, but he was not attending to which roads he took, and somehow he found himself at the Jondrette bridge. Montparnasse cursed the absentmindedness that had caused him to return and started to leave, but the youngest daughter, who seemed to have been standing as a lookout, had already seen him and dashed down to inform her family of his approach. The beggars were waiting anxiously for him; Éponine was covering her cheek with one hand. When Montparnasse arrived she hurried over to him, and as she lowered her arm he saw a red mark across the side of her face.

Despite his own confusion, Montparnasse began to bring Éponine along with him every night. Her inexplicable innocence despite her surroundings enthralled him; and more, he knew that keeping company with such a homely thing made him look even more handsome than he already was. He found that Éponine was useful as a distraction when he picked pockets (she objected to him cutting throats in her presence). She became something of an apprentice, a _galifard_, to him over the next few weeks.

"My hands are cold," Éponine said one evening. Winter was coming on, and the girl's rags were getting thinner. She thrust her icy little fingers into the warmth of Montparnasse's neck, and he shivered.

"Stop that," he muttered, pulling her hands away and warming them between his own.

She laughed. "If I had any money I could get some warm clothes, you know, or something to eat. What an idea!"

"Pick someone's pocket."

"I'd do it," she said, "but I'm not very good."

"Try it," said Montparnasse, dropping her hands. "Get my purse."

"You know I can't."

"Yes, but that won't stop you, will it?"

"No," Éponine said, laughing again, "I suppose not." She crossed around behind him, and Montparnasse looked straight ahead. "Tell me if I do it right."

She was terrible. Montparnasse felt her hand slide into his back pocket, and it made him uncomfortable. "Stop," he said gruffly, turning and pushing her away. "I felt it."

Eponine cursed under her breath, and Montparnasse could not help but smile. "But then," he added charitably, "I was waiting for it, and more I'm a thief myself. If I were some useless bourgeois I might not have felt it at all."

"Then I should try it on some bourgeois stranger?" she asked, raising her eyebrows.

"Why not?"

As if on cue, a well-dressed young man passed them and turned into a narrow alley nearby. Montparnasse put a finger to his lips and took Éponine's hand, leading her to the corner where they could watch the man without being seen. He stood at the other end of the alley and tapped his foot, then took out a gold watch and glanced at it impatiently.

"No doubt waiting for some grisette," Montparnasse whispered.

Éponine nodded. "A fancy watch he has, though. Should I?" Without waiting for an answer she crept into the alley, staying close to the buildings and blending into the shadows as Montparnasse had taught her to do. He held his breath as she sneaked around the stranger and slowly reached into his back pocket.

The man seized her wrist and spun around. Éponine tried to recoil, but she could not break his grip. "What have we here?" he asked hoarsely. "Ah, a little slut with no customers! Don't worry, my dear, ugly though you are, I'll show you a bit of fun. Can't pay you, though." He had pressed her against the wall. "You don't have some wretched disease, do you, my dear?"

Montparnasse found his knife and slipped toward them.

"Montparnasse," Éponine gasped, and her voice seemed more like a warning than a plea for help.

The man released her and stepped away.

"Montparnasse?" he repeated, his voice thick with fury. "Is he here?" He turned and saw the young man coming toward him in the darkness. "You!" he spat. "Look at this little dandy! Ah, and he has a knife! Are you going to kill me, my brat?"

Montparnasse paused for a moment, confused. "Let her go," he said at last.

"Ah, playing hero, are we?" he snatched up Éponine's wrist again. "Is this little louse your mistress, brat? And you wish to save her, I suppose." He laughed again and seized the ragged hem of Éponine's skirt, lifting it past her knee.

And then it happened again. Montparnasse's blood turned hot, and his ears rung. The feeling had been gone for so long, and now its return intoxicated him. He threw himself at the man, narrowly missing Éponine, and had him pinned in only a moment. He brought out his knife and held it at the man's throat.

"Oh," panted his victim, "so you'll kill me now, will you, Jules?"

Montparnasse faltered. "What?"

"Has my boy forgotten me so quickly, then? If it wasn't for me you'd be dead now, or at least a bourgeois locked up in a stuffy mansion somewhere."

"D- Dupont?" he gasped.

"So you haven't forgotten me." And then Montparnasse saw it; those same teasing eyes, colder than he remembered, glittered maliciously under a heavy brow. Time had not been kind to his old playmate, and he hardly looked to be only a year or so older than twenty. "And now you'll kill the very soul that brought you out here, that gave you the chance to be the hunter instead of the hunted, all because of an ugly girl you've taken a fancy to. No, I know you, little Jules, and I know you haven't the courage. You're soft, my brat! You'll never be anything more than a handsome boy with far too much pride!"

Montparnasse thrust the knife into his throat with a vicious twist, feeling that gut-wrenching joy he had grown unaccustomed to since he met Éponine. His old friend's eyes widened, and he reached up to clutch at Montparnasse's bloodstained hands before he fell away and was still.

"'Parnasse?"

Montparnasse slowly got to his feet and glanced up at Éponine. "It's been such a long time since I've been able to do that," he sighed, a smile playing across his pretty lips. He bent back down to clean his knife on Dupont's vest, then glanced sharply up at Éponine. "What was it you said?"

"'Parnasse."

"Don't say that again," he said firmly.

She grinned shakily at him. "What'll you do, cut my throat?"

"I might."

"You won't," she answered. "Anyway, your name is too long. Now I've shortened it."

"Well, what? What do you want?"

She smirked and held out her hand, revealing Dupont's watch.

For a moment Montparnasse could find nothing to say. "You..."

"I," she said. "I took it when the idiot thought he had me helpless."

And then he began to laugh, although he was not sure why. Éponine joined in, and then dropped the watch into her pocket.

"Montparnasse, is that you?" called Babet's nasal voice. The thief was hurrying into the alley. "I thought you weren't joining us to-night."

"I'm not," said Montparnasse. "I didn't know there was anything to join."

"There isn't, much. Barrecarrosse and I were planning a quick job down – " He noticed the corpse at Montparnasse's feet. "The devil! Do tell me, lad, what possible reason you could have had for killing a member of the Patron-Minette."

Glancing at Éponine, Montparnasse said, "He's an old rival of mine. It's his fault I grew up in the streets."

Babet frowned. "You're a fool, boy, do you know that?"

Montparnasse shrugged and nodded.


	12. The Field of the Lark

A/N- Sorry this took so long, but, coincidentally, it came time for me to post the fluffiest chapter of this blasted fic at the same time that I found out that my own Fluffy has a girlfriend. Yeah, I'm bitter, so I've rearranged this chapter so that I can Parnasse-ify it and because I'm not feeling all that loved/loving at the moment.

Obsetress- Yeah, it's kind of hard to figure the whole nasty dirty beggar slash prissy dandy murderer thing, but I love Ponine/Parnasse, so we'll go with that.

nebulia- Oh, dignified squeaks... I've pretty much given up on being dignified in any way, so I just have dorky squeaks... But, I think squeaks can be dignified. I mean... depending on the situation... maybe I should just shut up now... I make so little sense.

ArgentineRose- Javert? Uh... I think he has a walk-by guest appearance in one of the next two chapters... Maybe. I think. Or maybe it's a later chapter... Still, I know he wanders by before he actually does something significant.

Elyse3- Yep, Parnasse doesn't need schoolin' to know how to look fine. It just comes to him... like Cosette. Whoa, I just compared Montparnasse to Cosette...

Kang Xiu- Ah, that's it. Yeah, I spent a long time glaring at that chapter and trying to fix it, and finally I just gave up. Still, from this point forward I think I've got the bloody boy under control. But the rough draft of this story... he gets so OOC it's kind of sad, and that was really hard to change. Thanks so much for your review, though. I love criticism, really, because then I have something to work on. Does that even make sense? Sure, why not.

Mlle. Verity- Yes, for me too. I'm such a fanfiction sadist...

Aquamirajie Tara'rei- I'm sure your name does sound pretty... I don't have enough coordination to pronounce it. It looks pretty, though, that's for sure. My computer wants to change it to Aquamarine Terrier's. Spell check is so random...

les-miz-genius- Don't worry, dahling, Éponine appearances have hardly even begun properly. In fact, you'll probably get sick of the girl before this show's over.

kaze-nyv- Why, thanks. There's plenty more of this. In fact, we follow the boy all the way to his death, if you can stand to stick with me that long.

X

"Oh, look at the field," Éponine cried. "It's so different in the dark!"

Montparnasse glanced at the Field of the Lark. It had a strange look at night; fireflies hovered above the tall grass and mist rose from behind the row of trees at the bushes. A bat wheeled through the sky, a black speck against the starry darkness.

"Please, let's stop for a moment."

He sighed. "Only for a moment."

Éponine smiled at him as she gathered her dirty skirt into her hands and dashed through the field. The wind caught at her hair and her rags, blowing them out behind her. She reminded Montparnasse of a phantom, or of the bat overhead. Several yards away she stopped, calling, "Come on, 'Parnasse!"

"I don't frolic!"

Éponine came back over to him, seized both of his hands, and walked backward, pulling him after her. "Enjoy yourself. You want to," she said shortly. She ran backward for a moment, forcing him to follow. "I'm going to fall," she laughed, releasing one of his hands so that she could turn around.

Montparnasse took advantage of this, seizing his hat with his newly freed hand. He resigned himself to running after her, the wet grass brushing relentlessly against the legs of his trousers and the chill wind against his face. He would certainly never admit it, but there was something soothing about this field at night.

Éponine did not slow when they reached the line of trees at the far end of the field, and neither of them saw the embankment until it was too late to stop.

The two tumbled down the hill, a puzzle of arms and legs, and landed in the shallow creek that ran along the bottom.

Montparnasse got to his feet, looking down at his muddy clothes. "Damn."

Laughing, Éponine said, "Don't worry, 'Parnasse. Filth becomes you."

"It does, does it?" said Montparnasse. "If you were anyone else I'd have cut your throat for that."

"But I'm not anyone else," she said mischievously, "and I can do this." She scooped up a fistful of mud and tossed it at him. It splattered across the front of his white shirt.

"You – " he seized her arm and got his own handful of mud, rubbing it into her matted hair.

This instigated a miniature battle. The two youths, laughing, shrieking, and hurling mud at each other in the middle of the shallow water fractured the peacefulness of the misty little stream. Montparnasse still had one of Éponine's arms in his grasp, so when she ducked to avoid another volley and lost her balance, he fell back into the water with her.

Neither stood back up. Éponine stretched her arms above her head and sighed. "Well, at least your fancy clothes will be clean now."

He rolled over onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow. "You have mud on your face."

"I'm sure I have," she laughed. "Where?"

Montparnasse wet his fingers in the water and proceeded to scrub a spot on her cheek with his thumb. "Here."

"Ow!" she laughed, a smile on her lips. When she smiled like this Montparnasse no longer noticed the broken tooth or sunken eyes. What he saw was simply Éponine, smiling. "You make me think of my mother," she said.

"Do I?" he asked, pausing.

Her eyes met his, and she smiled again. "Well, not really. My mother is an ogre, remember?" He winced. "And you... you are a very pretty boy, 'Parnasse," she added, putting a hand on his cheek.

Montparnasse kissed her.

Perhaps it was only because of the compliment, but suddenly he found that he wanted her, this hideous little creature, and he was not thinking. She seemed to hesitate a moment before sliding her arms around his neck and pulling him closer, twisting her fingers through his wet hair. He knew what came next, and he began fumbling with the buttons of her blouse with one hand.

Éponine broke away and pushed him off of her almost violently. "I still don't want that, Monsieur Montparnasse," she said shakily, sitting up in the water.

And suddenly the pleasing ache dissolved into a blinding rage. She didn't want that? What about what he wanted? Why did she think that her decision was final? He snatched his hat up out of the water and jammed it back onto his head. "And where did you receive the power to order me around?" he snapped.

"I'll not be your mistress, 'Parnasse. I'm going to mean more to you than that. I'll be your friend, your wife, even—but you'll not take me as a mistress."

"Well, good, then, because I shan't take you as a mistress! But you'll never be more to me than an ugly beggar who took advantage of my hospitality for far too long! You can take your wretched father and your hideous mother and your dirty bridge and you can rot in hell!"

And, caught up in his own fury, he turned and left her in that stream without looking back.


	13. Monsieur L'Ombre

A/N- I just finished watching "What's Eating Gilbert Grape" for the first time, and it's such a good movie... _-still letting it sink in-_ But now I have this mental image of Johnny Depp as Montparnasse, with that hair and everything, and it's amusing, yet wrong. It was my 16th birthday yesterday.

Obsetress- Happy birthday! Um... Yeah, I adore Ponine/Parnasse, one-sided or otherwise. Mostly I like one-sided better. Did you ever read that Kris Freund Ponine/Parnasse story? Dang, that was good.

nebulia- Yay, I'm glad you are. I worked so hard on that chapter...

H. Sibelius- Another yay! I was actually wondering if anyone would find it that way... I'm working on getting Parnasse to fall in love with her, in case you haven't noticed... I'm sure you have.

Elyse3- Don't worry; next time you see Ponine you probably recognise her beyond a doubt. All this is/was set about a year and a half before she ever met Marius, so I have her a tad different than you'd expect. Also, I remember acting blatantly insane in front of Squiffy in my various stages of stalking, so she may have just been acting weird for Marius. But trust me, insane she will be.

sanoslittlegirl- Yes ma'am.

X

Montparnasse lay on his stomach, his chin in the crook of his right elbow, and scowled at the floor. He was angry, and the rage inside him had only grown stronger since he had left Éponine in that brook. He held his knife in his left hand and tilted it back and forth, watching the blade glint in the moonlight that shone through the window.

A strange series of thoughts paraded through Montparnasse's head, each slightly less rational than the last. Éponine did not want to be his mistress. Well, why not? What was wrong with being a mistress? And to be _his_ mistress! How could she have turned him down? After all, he had sworn off of women! Could she not see how fortunate she was that he would choose her, after all of the pretty grisettes that had offered him their company? Did she not understand how momentous it was that he would break his own vow with himself for her?

In a furious passion, Montparnasse drove his knife into the floor, watching the blade nick the wood. Completely shrouded in his thoughts, he began to scratch little figures next to the mark he had made. A girl, misshapen and deformed, with long stick-like hair and a flat chest, a crooked skirt and a twisted smile. He was no artist, of course, but he saw Éponine in the hideous little drawing.

And Montparnasse did not stop at this. He started another sketch, scratching each line with care. A face with large eyes and a delicately pointed chin took shape, then a long, elegant neck. The hair was in gingerly carved ringlets, and he gave the body such extravagant curves that his drawing began to border on caricature.

He spent nearly an hour this way, and when he finished he smiled at his work. The ugly one, carelessly scratched into the floor in a few moments of anger, was made even more ghastly by its neighbour. Although it was not especially good, the second drawing made its point. Montparnasse smiled at them both, satisfied with his work, and rolled over onto his back, dropping the knife.

Éponine and Juliette.

These girls, so completely different in character, both made him feel the same way.

He fell asleep with this thought on his mind.

X

Montparnasse was a light sleeper, and when someone knocked on the door he was on his feet in a moment, smoothing his hair and pulling on a jacket. A boy stood in the hallway, his hands on his hips.

"Well, what?" Montparnasse asked rudely, annoyed at the intrusion.

The gamin frowned at him for a moment, sticking out his lower lip as he thought. "I've a message for you, from a big fellow with lots of tattoos that I met out in the road. He told me to come out here and to say, 'the usual place, to-night,' to a young man with dark hair at this room. I suppose that's you, then."

"Yes, it's me," Montparnasse said, tossing the boy a sou. He caught it, said a quick thanks, and hurried away.

Montparnasse pulled on a suit and jacket, a top hat, and pocketed his knife. He saw his carvings from that morning and laughed to himself. They hadn't seemed so disfigured earlier.

After slipping a rose out of an old vendor's basket, Montparnasse met up with Gueulemer in the faubourg Saint-Jacques. Wrinkling his nose at the filth around him, he said softly, "I do hope there is a good reason for this."

"Just this: Babet and Claquesous are meeting us in the city, near the Rue Champaud. They've picked a place for us to work over to-night. A big stone house with no one home but a maid and a doorman."

Montparnasse nodded. "Let's go."

He followed the huge shadow at a distance, smirking at the poor huddled in doorways and pointedly ignoring the girls with uncovered heads and low-cut dresses. He had had enough of women.

At length Gueulemer turned down a pleasant little avenue and joined two more shadows, bowing his head and whispering something. The smallest of the figures nodded and looked up to greet Montparnasse. "Where's your little mistress, then?" Babet asked teasingly.

"Mistress?" repeated Montparnasse, a chill creeping into his voice.

Babet did not hear it. "That wretched girl you've been dragging about for the past few months. You know, the one whose father is a thief? Have you finally moved on, then?"

"It would seem so," Montparnasse said stiffly.

"Touchy brat, isn't he?" said Claquesous.

Montparnasse scowled. "Are we here to do a job or not?"

"That's true," Babet nodded. "Who brought the mastic?"

Gueulemer held out a bit of adhesive tape. "Is there a dog?" he asked.

Babet confirmed that there was no dog. He smiled jauntily at the others and pushed open the gate, sauntering up to the door as if he had an appointment. When the rest to caught up he turned to Gueulemer. "Now."

Gueulemer expertly used the mastic to break a window without a sound. Stepping away, he motioned for Babet to enter.

"How about letting the boy do it?" Claquesous's voice whispered.

Babet shrugged and glanced at Montparnasse, who rolled his eyes and climbed through and into the house.

It had been dark outside, but still it took a moment his eyes to become accustomed to the oblivion in the house. He had entered a sort of sitting room. The front door was on his left and another door on the far wall led to the other rooms. Montparnasse glanced about, quickly appraising the furnishings with a trained eye. It was perfect.

Montparnasse crept across the room, taking each step slowly to detect creaking floorboards. He was halfway across the room when he heard Claquesous's voice from hardly a foot away from him hiss, "Don't wake the dab!"

Even after spending the better part of three years in the thieves' company, Montparnasse had not quite accustomed himself to Claquesous and his malignant habits. The ventriloquist enjoyed nothing more than a commotion, and he seemed to constantly find new ways of causing Montparnasse to blunder and make a fool of himself before the others. He had never really liked the boy.

This trick worked. Upon hearing the voice at his side, Montparnasse jumped, colliding with a table and knocking over the lamp. The resulting crash seemed loud enough to bring the house down on his head.

Montparnasse stood completely still, holding his breath. The front door was only a few feet away; he could dash over and unlock it, letting the rest of the gang in before the occupants of the house could come to see the trouble. His heartbeat seemed louder than the sound of the falling lamp had been. If he got the rest of the gang to help, however, Claquesous would laugh and say that he was too young to be of any use after all. Montparnasse moved carefully over to the other door—the door that led to the rest of the house.

Indeed, it was not long until he heard a shuffling step on the stair, and a flickering light shone under the door. An old man entered the front room with a rasping cough, a candle clutched in his hand. "Who's there?" he demanded, his thin voice shaking.

Montparnasse sprang forward, drawing his knife quickly across that wrinkled throat. "The Patron-Minette," he answered softly, watching the little body crumple to the floor, the candle extinguished.

Gueulemer had said that only a doorkeeper and a maid were home, and that had been the doorkeeper. Montparnasse hoped the maid's fate would fall to him as well. He was not feeling very kind toward femininity in general.

Stepping over the corpse of the doorkeeper, he unbolted the front door and pushed it open, moving aside as Gueulemer, Babet, and Claquesous entered the house.

"What kept you so long, lad?" Babet asked.

Montparnasse pointed to the old doorkeeper and smirked. "I'll go on upstairs," he said, seeing a staircase at the end of the hall. The others agreed, and he bounded up to the second floor.

A young lady had been waiting on the landing, perhaps for the doorkeeper to come back, a long robe pulled over her night-gown, and when Montparnasse came into view she had screamed and rushed up another flight of stairs. Feeling truly violent, Montparnasse dashed after her. He reached the third floor and saw a door close. She was shrieking for somebody to be quiet, and Montparnasse went over and rattled the doorknob, finding it blocked by something heavy. He laughed and thrust his shoulder against the door, feeling it inch open. The lady's cries were twice as loud now, and Montparnasse seemed to hear, not the insane babble of a terrified bourgeoisie, but the low voice of Éponine.

His shoulder slammed against the door again.

_I'll not be your mistress._

Slam.

_I'm going to mean more to you than that._

Slam. The door was now opened wide enough that he could have put an arm through.

Slam.

_I'll be your friend—your wife even—but you'll not take me as a mistress._

A final thrust and the door was open; he slid into the room, knife in hand, a mad glint in his eye. The young lady was screaming in the corner, standing in front of an overstuffed armchair. Montparnasse crossed the room in a few purposeful strides, seizing her wrist and pulling her toward him. He held the knife at her throat.

Something moved in the room. Montparnasse's head snapped up, and he squinted into the dusky corner by the chair, his victim forgotten.

A pair of wide, blue eyes was staring at him, a little mouth gaping in terror. Suddenly the young lady's screams were coherent. "No, Laurent, get down! No! My God, no! Don't let them see you!"

This was not a maid. This was a governess, taking care of the rich child while the parents vacationed in some expensive countryside retreat. This girl's job was to protect and teach the child.

Montparnasse silenced her.

The little boy's mouth fell open as if he wanted to scream, but he made no sound. He stared at Montparnasse with a horrified expression, and, at the same time, a knowledge that he was next. His curly blond hair disappeared again as he ducked behind the chair, huddling in the corner.

Montparnasse took a few slow steps toward the chair, his knife heavy in his hand.

He jerked the boy to his feet.

The child whimpered, and Montparnasse knew he could not do it. He released the boy, letting him crumple to the ground in a trembling heap. "Damn it!"

"Going soft?" the ventriloquist's voice said harshly.

Montparnasse turned to face the door, but Claquesous was not there. Still, he knew the ventriloquist must be nearby, and that he had seen him unable to kill this child.

Montparnasse heard a strangled yelp, and he spun back around.

The masked shadow that was Claquesous stood over the corpse of the little boy, a bloody knife in his gloved hand.


	14. The Rose Crushed

A/N- I swear I wrote this chapter before the POTO film came out. In fact, when I first saw the POTO film I started thinking, "They stole that from my story!" and got rather annoyed. It's okay though, because I highly doubt they did. Still... you'll know what I'm talking about soon. And if not, yay! Also, the end of this chapter was written under the influence of Jekyll & Hyde, and a renewed love for it.

Obsetress- You probably enjoyed it because it's violent and sadistic. The creepiest chapters are my favourites as well.

nebulia- Yay, I'm glad. That's what I was going for, but it's quite difficult...

Elyse3- Oh, good. I think Hugo actually did write his books like that just to make it easier for folks in the future, writing fanfiction. Course, so much detail isn't always good, because the characters are really well established and it's kind of harder to follow... Crazy 'Ponine is next update, by the way, just for you!

TheSanityStealingPenguinQueen- Erik, Claquesous, and Enjolras... one of these things is not like the other...

sanoslittlegirl- Aw, thanks. Yes, Montparnasse is hot, which is why I love him so. If he were real... I think I might qualify as his biggest fan, so I would have to call dibs on first date... unless he really was in love with Ponine, and then I'd just be mad.

AmZ- _-isn't entirely sure how to interpret this review-_

Notthatlucky- Well, this _is_ an update, although it certainly can't qualify as "soon," I'm afraid. And yes, angst is back with a vengeance, perhaps never to leave again.

Aquamirajie-Tararei- Looks like it. Or maybe he's still working on becoming... er... the opposite of soft. After all, he still must look good in front of his pals in the gang, right?

X

Montparnasse did not hear from Éponine Jondrette for months. Most of this time he spent most of this time occupied with the rest of the Patron-Minette. This did not mean that he did not think of her—on the contrary, he seemed to see things that reminded him of her everywhere: the shadow of a beggar huddled in a doorway, the sight of Babet's wife and their children, and even the fresh rose he nicked daily to place in his buttonhole. Thoughts of her surfaced in his mind almost constantly, always accompanied by anger. He imagined himself hitting her hard across the face, hurting her, and imagined her eyes wide with terror of him. It was the terror that he really wanted to see; she had always seemed confident and sure of herself when he had known her. He wanted to know, just once, that she could be uncertain—that he could be in control. The drawing carved onto the floor of his room became almost indecipherable under slashes he had added in moments of fury.

Still, he was not prepared for his own reaction the next time he heard her mentioned.

One evening when he did not want to join the gang (he seemed to be growing weary of the same routine) Montparnasse set out alone to find himself a new suit. As he was strolling down an avenue near the river a gamin laughed at him. "Going out to see the sights?" he called.

Montparnasse gave the boy a disdainful glance and tried to continue on his way.

The boy followed him. "Planning to have a bit of fun, then? Going to find yourself a lady friend?"

"Listen, brat," Montparnasse said, irritated, "it's none of your concern where I plan to go this evening. In fact, if you knew who I was, I doubt you'd be so bold as to address me so carelessly."

The urchin laughed derisively. "Well, then, who are you, my vain boy? Are you the king? Are you God himself? Or perhaps," he added, noticing the vicious curl of Montparnasse's lip, "perhaps you are the _mariol_."

"We're getting a bit closer," Montparnasse said shortly. He could not simply walk away for anticipation of the boy's reaction at learning his name. No matter how long he spent prowling the streets, he never tired of the wide-eyed horror he had seen so often.

"Ah, so you're more _mariol_ than _meg_, eh?" the boy said, slipping into impressive _argot_. "A thief, then? Well, I suppose you would be, considering you seem to know the meaning of '_mariol_', yes?" His eyes rested on the flower in Montparnasse's buttonhole, then skipped up to his hat, which was turned up on one side so that a bit of dark hair could be seen—an old fashion, but one that Montparnasse liked, being very proud of his ebony locks. "You couldn't be..." breathed the gamin. "Who are you?"

He had suddenly switched to _vous_.

Montparnasse told him.

The boy's eyes widened, but he quickly recovered his sneer. "You're not so tough, then. And you certainly aren't so pretty as my sister says."

"Your sister?" Montparnasse asked, unable to hide the pleasure in his voice. Perhaps all women were not as foolish as Éponine after all.

The child sneered. "You don't have to look so inflated, citizen. My sister knows you're a fool already."

"And you," Montparnasse said, ignoring this, "what's your name?"

"Gavroche—Monsieur Jondrette to scum like you."

_Jondrette._ This name echoed in Montparnasse's ears, strangely loud inside his head. He had thought often of his own response to Éponine's rejection, but never had it occurred to him that Éponine might have been hurt by his abrupt exit from her life. Suddenly he was overcome with a desire to see her again, even from afar, and to see if she was as upset about losing him as she should be. Before he could consider these strange reactions, he found that he had set off at a run, leaving the boy behind.

He did not know what he planned to do on reaching the bridge. Of course he would not apologise—that was ridiculously below him—but he wanted to see Éponine again. Perhaps he would give _her_ the chance to apologise; after all, it was because of her own stupidity that he had abandoned her.

His thoughts still jumbled, Montparnasse reached the Jondrette bridge. He stopped several feet away and squinted into the darkness in an attempt to make out shapes or any signs of movement.

There was nothing.

He slowly came closer, still unable to see anyone. At last, biting back his pride, he hissed, "Éponine!" There was no reply.

Nothing was under the bridge. Even the filthy rags that the family had used for blankets were gone.

"They moved," a voice said. Montparnasse spun around to see little Gavroche sauntering toward him. "They got a room. A shabby one, perhaps, but it's not so drafty as the bridge, Éponine says."

"Where are they, then?" Montparnasse asked stiffly.

"Shan't tell," smirked Gavroche, continuing on his way. He began to sing loudly, his high, thin voice nearly drowned by the wind.

Montparnasse threw his hat on the ground in frustration, then quickly retrieved it and dusted it off, carefully returning it to his head. He stood still for a moment, thinking.

Perhaps it was best that he had not found Éponine. To go running back to a girl who had flatly refused him a few months earlier was absurd. What would Claquesous and the rest say if they heard he had nearly gone grovelling back to Éponine, ugly as she was, begging her to take him back? Indeed, that was nearly what he had done. Montparnasse shuddered and looked around as if making sure none had seen this blunder.

Éponine was nothing. She was simply a hideous rat he had been kind to for a while, then tired of. So why could he not stop thinking of her?

During this time he absently put a hand in his pocket and found a few coins there. An idea occurred to him, and Montparnasse, smiling bitterly, pulled the rose from his buttonhole and dropped it in the dirt, crushing it under the heel of his boot. Watching the soft petals shred, he said softly, "And goodbye."

He counted the coins in his pocket, tossed them into the air and caught them, then started on his way. He returned to the barrière and found a little crowd of prostitutes huddled against the wind.

"Well, hello m'sieur," one of the girls said upon seeing him. "I suppose you fancy a bit of company to-night."

Montparnasse showed her the money in his hand, saying, "Why else would I be in a hellhole like this?"

"That's true, this place isn't much," she laughed. He became aware that she was appraising him as they spoke. "Listen, m'sieur, I want that money, really I do, but you seem a gentleman, I know one that needs someone charitable and kind like you."

"Very well, then. As long as she's a whore."

The young woman nodded, then pulled another girl from the crowd. "What do you think of this one?" she asked. "This is my little sister. It's her first night, m'sieur. I promised her I wouldn't let her go off with just anybody."

Montparnasse looked at the pitiful thing he was being offered. She was horribly thin, shivering with cold and shaking with fear, staring at him with wide, terrified eyes. She was afraid of him without even knowing who he was. He could not help but smile as he dropped his money into her sister's outstretched hand.

"I'll keep this for you till morning, little one," the sister said softly, giving the girl's hand a squeeze. "Just do as I told you."

Montparnasse rolled his eyes. "I hope you have a room somewhere."

The girl shook her head slowly. It took Montparnasse a moment to realise she was shaking her head at all, as she was trembling so violently.

"Well, come on then," he sighed, leading her back to his own room.

When they arrived, the girl stood motionless in the doorway, staring at his mattress in horror.

"Come _on_," he hissed, pulling her in and closing the door. "You must do something, you useless little slut."

She did nothing. Annoyed, Montparnasse slapped her across the face; she fell, tears filling her eyes. He felt some sort of release of tension, of anger, as he watched the girl lying there, her back heaving with sobs. He pulled her to her feet and pressed her against the wall, running his hands up her stomach, then undoing her dress and letting it fall to the ground. The girl sank to the floor with it.

Montparnasse seized her upper arm and dragged her to the mattress. She was crying, so he hit her again. Of course this did not stop her tears; she cried even harder, her eyes closed tightly as if afraid to look at him. Montparnasse felt an odd satisfaction in the depths of his stomach as he hit her once more. Her lower lip had been cut against her teeth, and it was slowly being covered by blood, glistening in the dim room.

He laughed and kissed her.


	15. The House on the Rue Beautreillis

A/N- Well, that was intense. Let's lighten the mood a bit, shall we? You know, it occurs to me that story is sort of Les Mis meets Dorian Gray meets Wicked meets the most recent Star Wars movie... By the way, where is everyone?

Deadlyabyss12- Yup. He's having difficulty dealing with rejection... and I know how he feels... Ahem.

Elyse3- Eek, I was wrong. Éponine returns _next_ chapter. Oh well.

AmZ- Yay, a nice, Author-friendly review! Parnasse is a big fat jerk in that chapter, I guess. Your review made me laugh aloud in the library, by the way.

ArgentineRose- Gavroche doesn't get written more often? Hm, I feel like I see him a lot... Well, no maybe not... I just didn't really notice the lack of Gavroche (outside of those Eppie fangirl fics I can't even sit still long enough to stomach).

Obsetress- Yes, blood, gore, and et cetera are way fun to read about. _–commercial voice—_ And if you like this blood, check out my newest musical love, Sweeney Todd! Seriously. It's incredible.

Mizamour- Aw, I'm glad you don't think my writing's awful. This story, by the way, stretches on for a very long time. In fact, we follow him to his death. So, it might last me the rest of the year trying to finish it.

X

Montparnasse lay on his back, watching the night sky. He was intrigued by the way the purple clouds moved across the stars, slowly blocking the cheerful little points of light. Something about the gradual changes in the heavens seemed to give him a feeling of tranquil contentment that he was not accustomed to, yet could not help liking. Thunder rumbled in the distance and his chest seemed to fill with some kind of peaceful elation. The young murderer sighed aloud.

He had not been able to watch the sky when he had a room. Perhaps it was best, then, that the neighbours had awakened the landlady after hearing that cowering prostitute's sobs through the crumbling, thin walls. The good woman had hurried upstairs and encountered Montparnasse in the hallway, dragging the girl's limp body out to the street. Despite his protests that the girl had fainted in fright after he had walked in on her trying to rob him, the landlady had turned him out, telling him to get the little whore home before she sent for the police. He had left her in an alley, trusting that when she woke she would be able to find her sister without incident.

Finding himself without a room, Montparnasse returned to his old home, the former Jondrette bridge. There he rediscovered the beauty of a cloud-filled sky and the thrill of being outdoors during a storm. Montparnasse came to realise that he preferred the open bridge to his old room. And then, there was always the chance of the Jondrette family returning.

On this particular night, one of the Jondrettes did happen by the old bridge, and upon seeing Montparnasse there stopped to chat. Of course, it was not Éponine.

"Hello, is that you, Montparnasse?"

The young man sat up, cracking his head on the underside of the bridge and swearing loudly as thunder rolled across the horizon again. "Who the devil is that?" he asked irritably, angry at being disturbed.

"It's me, of course." Only then did Montparnasse notice little Gavroche, shivering in his dirty rags as Éponine had so often done.

"What the hell do you want?" said Montparnasse, clutching his head. Lightning sliced through the sky, and the sight seemed to smooth a few of his ruffled feathers.

"My, my, but you're in a foul mood this evening. I actually came by here looking for a place to stay to-night, but it seems my ancestors' old home had already been taken. I suppose I just wasn't quick enough, and the snake has taken the worm's hole."

"Good then," Montparnasse said, waving a hand at him, "Go somewhere else and don't bother me."

Ignoring him, Gavroche plopped to the ground and crossed his legs, leaning forward to better converse. Montparnasse groaned loudly, but the boy continued to chat. "There's a storm coming, did you know?"

"I guessed when I saw the lightning."

"Did you now? Well, there's a smart fellow. Tell me, was that you that beat little Jacqueline so good?"

Montparnasse frowned at him. "Little what?"

"Jacqueline. She's one of those Open-to-All ladies, sister to one of my friends. It was her first night trying to earn a bit of money to support their family—you know it's just the girls and their brother Navet—and their parents are gone. Navet and I, we come swimming at this bridge sometimes. But Jacqueline, she said she had a pretty fellow come along, well dressed and black-haired, and she said he hurt her. She wouldn't say more though. Weepy little thing, Jacqueline. But I thought perhaps you were her fellow."

"What did you tell her?" Montparnasse asked, an edge creeping into his voice.

Gavroche shrugged. "Nothing."

"And why not?"

"Didn't seem too important. After all, we thieves must stick together," he said matter-of-factly.

Montparnasse could not help but smile at this. He found himself liking this cheeky little gamin. In fact, he was finding that he had something of a soft spot for all urchins, as they reminded him of himself as a child. Of course, he had never been very bold at that age—Gavroche could not have been more than ten years old—but he liked the boy's daring.

"Ah! This old sky, she's started raining on me now!" Gavroche cried, frowning at a single drop of water than had landed on his bony arm. "Drat, and I haven't got any warmer clothes or a place to stay."

"Clothes?" Montparnasse repeated. "I think I could help you there. I need a few things myself, anyway."

Gavroche gave him a warning look. "You'll not be killing any children for finery, hear? In fact, I don't want to you kill anyone while I'm around, my good man. If you need clothes, I want to see money change hands first."

Montparnasse laughed aloud. "Don't worry, boy, I know of a fellow working right in our business. I wouldn't dream of robbing him... we thieves must stick together, you know." He got to his feet and motioned for the gamin to follow him.

"Where are we going, then?" Gavroche asked, jogging to keep up with the young murderer's strides.

"The Rue Beautreillis."

"Near the Arsenal?"

"The same."

"What for?"

"Clothes, of course."

Gavroche did not say anything else as he followed Montparnasse. The storm broke at last, and a light rain punctuated by the occasional flash of lightning or grumble of thunder. They reached the Arsenal, and Montparnasse motioned for him to stop outside a dirty old hovel.

"Where are we, then?" the boy asked eagerly. Montparnasse simply put a hand on his shoulder and guided him to the door, then knocked. Gavroche turned to look up at him. "What is this place?" he asked again.

"A handy little spot to know of, especially in a business like mine. And yours," he added with a small laugh.

The door was pulled open a few inches, and an old face appeared in the gap. "Yes? What?"

"Montparnasse here, looking for a setup. Perhaps a good dagger and a set of quills," said the young man.

The door opened a bit wider. "Montparnasse? Yes, I see. Come in." The old man moved aside to let them enter.

Gavroche gasped, and Montparnasse could not hide a smile. Every part of the walls of the little room they entered were covered in hooks, and outfits hung on them all—costumes from every social class or position imaginable. Several boxes were stacked in the middle of the room, all labeled with a cramped hand. Montparnasse frowned at the marks for a second, then looked away. It did not matter what the boxes said, nor that he could not read them.

"And what are messieurs seeking?" the old Jew asked. He had retreated to a counter beside the boxes, and had begun scribbling on a little scrap of paper.

Montparnasse looked down at Gavroche, who was feeling the silk of a waistcoat hanging nearby between two fingers, mouth agape. "I suppose you haven't any clothes for a boy? To buy?"

The Jew squinted at him. "I don't normally sell clothes."

"Yes, I know, but I was hoping we could arrange something. I do have money."

"To buy..." the man furrowed his brow and gazed up at the ceiling, running a hand over his hair. "Well, I do have some small outfits I just received that might fit him. Far too small for most, but I suppose they'd work. It'll be sixty sous. That's a deal, you understand."

"Absolutely," Montparnasse nodded, digging the money out of his purse and laying it on the counter. The Jew nodded and scooped it into a drawer, then lifted down one of the boxes, peered at the writing on the side, and opened it.

"Gavroche, come here," called Montparnasse. The boy returned a powdered wig he had been wearing to its hook and hurried over to them. "Look at these," Montparnasse said.

The Jew was holding out a small chemise and pair of trousers. "I got them from some of those printer's boys, so you must excuse the ink stains." Gavroche nodded wordlessly.

"Well," said Montparnasse, "do you want them?"

Gavroche nodded again, then began to speak quickly, his words rushing together and tripping over one another in their hurry to leave his lips. "How much are they? I'll be paying, of course. I have a few centimes here—of course, they'll never catch it, will they?"

"I've paid," said Montparnasse. "Go ahead and put them on."

The boy frowned up at him. "I shall have to pay you back, monsieur."

"No, you won't. Just put them on."

Gavroche took the clothes eagerly, pulling the chemise over his own ragged shirt and holding out his arms. The sleeves were a little too long, and the waist almost reached his knees. "It's perfect!"

"And you, you were looking for a dagger, did you say?" the Jew said, peering at Montparnasse.

"Something like that, yes."

The old man nodded. "Good then. Yes, yes, I have something here, something perfect. You'll want to buy it, I suppose? Look here." He produced a cane from one of the boxes.

"Monsieur..." Montparnasse said slowly. Had he not asked for a dagger?

"No, I'm not daft. Watch," the old man said. He pulled at the tip of the cane, which came off in his hand, revealing a sharp dagger. "You look like a bourgeois, but you're armed like a gendarme."

Montparnasse was very good at hiding astonishment, but his surprise at seeing a blade inside an innocent cane was impossible to conceal. "I'll take it," he said, emptying his purse onto the counter.

The old Jew laughed at him. "Sold."


	16. The Rose Resurfaces

A/N- And at last we're following the novel! Are you excited? I know I am. The plot, she is moving. They did something interesting to the site, didn't they?

AmZ- Yeah, that occurred to me after a while, but I didn't feel like going back and changing it... I'm watching Jekyll & Hyde, and I'm like... Whoa, John has a Parnasse thing. So then I sort of realised it.

Elyse3- You don't much see him mentioned in fanfiction, do you? The Changer, I mean.

Aquamirajie Tara'rei- Heh... that is a Gavroche type thing to sing, isn't it? Marius and Cosette would have to sing The Song That Goes Like This.

Mizamour- Or Montparnasse, of course. He's the hottest of all! And yeah, I'd be willing to debate on that. 'Course, he's not the most famous, I suppose.

Cecilia Carlton- Doncha hate perky little Cockney Gavroches? Gavrii? I don't really know how to pluralize that...

Mlle. Verity- Yup, you're right about the dagger, and kudos for catching that. It's interesting, cos in my original version of this story Parnasse was never really a bad guy, just sort of... confused... but I'm in the process of changing it drastically.

X

"We've a job," Babet said softly. "The new _galifard_ has some rich man coming to his place. Wants us to be there."

Montparnasse furrowed his brow. "What new _galifard_?"

"An old innkeeper who's squirmed his way into the gang's workings. He has a rich man dressed as a pauper coming to his place, and he wants us to help him rob the fellow."

"Where?"

"An old slum near the barrière, the Gorbeau place. I'm on my way now. You in?"

Montparnasse nodded and followed Babet to that section of town, stopping only to bid Gueulemer join them. The ground was covered in a thick blanket of snow, but Montparnasse's new boots kept him dry. They stopped outside a dirty tenement, and Babet motioned for them to lean in. "This is it," he whispered.

"This?" Montparnasse said doubtfully. "It's filthy."

"Of course it is. Why else would a rich philanthropist take to the innkeeper's family?"

"I see your point," the young man nodded. He thought he heard a low cough in the small darkened alley nearby, and he motioned for Babet and Gueulemer to be still.

"Montparnasse."

Startled, he eyed Babet and Gueulemer to ascertain that they had not said his name. He did not need to see their confused glances and closed mouths to know that the raspy voice that had called him had not been Babet's nasal tones or Gueulemer's low growl. Montparnasse peered into the darkness and there saw an angular shadow crouched in the snow. "Hello?"

The form unfolded itself, stood, and moved into the light. Montparnasse's stomach seemed to bend unpleasantly and his eyes widened as he recognised Éponine. She was thinner than he remembered, dirtier, and her eyes had developed an empty, glassy look. The gruff voice belonged to her; Montparnasse thought that perhaps she had been ill.

"Montparnasse," she said again in that voice that was more like a cough, "I thought you would come."

He glanced at Babet and Gueulemer. "Go on. I expect the others are waiting for you."

They nodded and moved on, but not before Babet pointedly wrinkled his nose at the girl. Montparnasse continued to look in their direction even after they had disappeared into the old building. He needed to gather his thoughts, and he needed to do so without looking at Éponine.

He had decided that he was angry with her, that he hated her. Memories of their strolls together—especially the night in the Field of the Lark—always made him want to hurt something. He had taken that girl, Jacqueline, to his home and then realised that Éponine had always been too confident, too overbearing, and that she had controlled what he did when he was with her. Montparnasse wanted to make his own decisions and do whatever he pleased. He wanted women to fear him and respect him. He did not want to think of Éponine.

Yet when he saw her there after so many months, he had reacted in the same way he always had. He wanted to smile at her, offer his arm, and set off to teach her to pick pockets, or just to be with her as he wandered through the darkened streets of Paris. He wanted to revisit the Field of the Lark, but this time he wanted a different ending.

Still, his anger was there. Éponine had rejected him, and even if he could not stop himself being glad to see her, he could stop himself from showing it.

"Montparnasse?"

He slowly tore his gaze from the building and allowed himself to look at her again.

"Yes, you have come, haven't you? Of course, I know it wasn't to see me. You didn't know I was here, or I daresay you would've stayed at your bridge to-night. Don't you think it's drafty under there? I always hated being there in the rain, when the wind blew and we got so wet. You had a room once, didn't you? Why don't you stay in your room?"

He said nothing.

"You're still angry at me, then. Very well, so be it. Although I suppose I could be angry with you. After all, you're the one who... well, never mind that now, I suppose. But why didn't you go with Messieurs Gueulemer and Babet?"

Montparnasse had been looking at her emotionless eyes, which remained fixed at some point above his shoulder, but here he started, having just understood something she had said. "How did you know I was under the bridge?"

"Well, Gavroche told me, of course," she answered, still watching something behind him.

Curious, Montparnasse turned and followed her gaze. She was looking up at the Gorbeau building; he assumed she was looking her some sort of signal from her father's room.

"It was good of you to be so kind to my brother," she sighed. "Lord knows Mama isn't, and certainly not Papa. He does have that one boy he's with a lot. Montparnasse, why didn't you go up with Messieurs Babet and Gueulemer?"

He scowled at her. "I did not think it gentlemanly to ignore a lady's greetings. However—"

"Was it gentlemanly to leave me, then?" For the first time, her eyes moved to his face. "I know you have whores in the streets throwing themselves at you, pretty as you are, yet you chose to be... to be my friend. Still, I didn't want to be just another of those girls, Montparnasse, you must understand. I wanted to be different, to have your respect. I'm sure I wouldn't now..." She was watching the building again. "But it doesn't matter anymore," Éponine concluded in a whisper, more like a growl.

Montparnasse scowled at her again. "What?"

She shrugged her bony shoulders, causing her oversized chemise to slide off. She absently pulled it back up and started to fasten it, only to find there were no more buttons. "Papa was angry with me when you didn't come back. He said I'd upset you, and that I'd shamed the family, and that the Patron-Minette would never let him in with you angry with us. That shows how little he knows, doesn't it? You see, he met Monsieur Babet somehow and now he's begun to join them sometimes, going out to rob a respectable family or whatever it is your friends do. They've counted him in, they have, and that was even with you angry at me."

Montparnasse did not hear a lot of this discourse. His mind was still on what he had seen when her blouse had slipped off of her shoulders. Éponine had grown up in these months apart, a regular young lady now, and he had begun working on a way to get her back to his bridge.

"Come with me," Montparnasse said abruptly, seizing her arm.

Startled, Éponine glanced at him, then back up at the building. Montparnasse turned to see what it was that continued to hold her attention. On the second floor were two neighbouring windows, one with a broken pane, the other darkened. He could see figures moving about the illuminated room, but Éponine, curiously, seemed to be watching the other. She said nothing for a long time, lost in thought. Montparnasse waited patiently for a while, but eventually coughed a little to regain her attention. Éponine jumped, shook her head, then stared blankly at him.

"Will you come with me?" he repeated, a little slower this time.

She gave an odd little smile and began to mutter to herself. Montparnasse heard the occasional, "Well, why not?" thrown in with what sounded like a gross pronunciation of his name. At last she concluded her whispered monologue with, "After all, he isn't home, is he?"

Montparnasse had no idea what she meant by this. He led her to the bridge, frowning a little as he thought.

X

About an hour later, Éponine pushed Montparnasse off of her and sprang to her feet, hitting her head on the underside of the bridge. She swore loudly as she straightened her clothes.

"Where are you going?"

She grinned blankly at him. "I've got to tend to my family, don't I? They told me to keep watch, and I should get back. Wouldn't it be a pretty fix if the cops came and I hadn't seen them?"

"Wait! You—"

Éponine turned to him, an odd look in her eyes. She smiled at him again, but this time she was looking at him, her glassy eyes suddenly alive and piercing. "Thank you," she said softly.

"What?"

"Thank you," she said again. "For being gentle."

"For what?"

"Gavroche told me about the other girl, the sister of his friend. He told me to stay away from you, 'Parnasse. Said you were dangerous."

Montparnasse seized her hand. He had not heard that nickname since the Field of the Lark, and now, under his bridge with her, somehow the months apart did not seem so long or empty. "Éponine..."

"I have to go," she said firmly, pulling away.

"Why—"

Éponine shook her head and was gone.

"Oh, go to hell!" Montparnasse shouted after her.

X

"Hey, little brat!"

The voice was only inches away from Montparnasse's ear, and his head snapped around, only to see no one. He groaned.

"Claquesous?"

"Who else?"

"How did the job go?"

"Not well," said the ventriloquist. "Lucifer himself made an appearance, and he pocketed everyone."

"Lucifer?" Montparnasse repeated. He had heard the others refer to some policeman with this name. "Everyone's in?"

"Everyone but the rich man."

Montparnasse scrambled to his feet, just avoiding a collision with the underside of the bridge. "Are you sure?"

"Well, he didn't get me, either. He got all of the gang."

"Including Jondrette?" Montparnasse demanded.

"Including Thénardier," confirmed the ventriloquist.

"Including— who's Thénardier?"

Claquesous laughed, and Montparnasse could not help but shiver. "The innkeeper turned out to be a con. His name is not Jondrette."

"Thénardier, then. He was caught?"

"He was. Save your breath, boy, I know what you want to say. Yes, Thénardier was caught. Yes, his daughters were caught. Yes, both of them. Yes, the eldest of his sluts is in jail. Good enough?"

Montparnasse frowned into the shadows. "Are we going to help them get out, then?"

"Perhaps. I think Babet and Brujon will be able to make it without our help. The innkeeper..."

"What about the others?"

Claquesous was mocking him again. "What others?" And with a movement in the shadows he was gone.


	17. The Shade and the Baron

A/N- I live. As you probably all know by now, considering I've updated everything else...

nebulia- Yay, I'm inside your head! To some extent... I was sort of going for a "the boy is in love but he's such a stupid jerk he doesn't know what to do" type thing... hopefully that's coming through.

M. Mabeuf- Surprisingly, I haven't seen that story... _-wanders off to search- _There are actually very few Montparnasse stories I haven't found and read... Is it at this site?

AmZ- That's a goodfic idea... I'm not very good at doing Javert, though, as you'll probably see later on. And he used to be my favourite character.

Banba- Wow, your review was very nice. Many thanks; I feel loved. This is actually (if not obviously) the most difficult fic I've ever written, and probably the most researched, so I'm glad it's going as well as it is.

Elyse3- Hey, I love the evil and immoral...ness... too, and I tried to explain to my mother why I'm so obsessed with Parnasse... she didn't quite see it.

The Artist Formerly Known As Rei- That _is_ an interesting concept. Yuck, stripes? I've actually gone back and listened to all the Montparnasses on all my LM CD's - he sings "Go home, Ponine, go home, you're in the way!" The most ridiculous was the guy on the OBC, closely followed by the one on the PRC. I think my favourite is the TAC guy, though the CSR isn't bad. I forgot about the OLC... probably not all that great. You see, I am a dork of the worst kind.

ArgentineRose- I'm glad my Claquesous is well received... I don't really like the character, so I usually keep him at an arms length, or in the shadows where I can't see him.

Mizamour- Thank you, m'dear. Poor 'Parnasse is so obvious to Claquesous... and he tries so hard...

* * *

The sound of sobbing piqued Montparnasse's curiosity, and he slipped into the alley to investigate. A finely dressed young woman was stooped over the body of a gentleman; crimson blood reflected in the lamplight at the corners of his mouth and on his throat. Montparnasse shivered with delight.

The woman seemed to sense his presence, and she whirled around to face him, terror in her watery eyes. "What do you want? Wasn't this enough for you?" she cried, staring around the alley. "You've come back for me too, have you? Oh God, I can't see you, but I know you're there!"

Montparnasse leapt forward and seized her around the waist, holding his cane-dagger to her throat. "Who did this?" he hissed into her ear.

"God, I don't know! My bonnet blew away; I ran to catch it and left him alone! I came back to this!"

"Is his purse gone?"

"What? I don't know! I have enough respect for the dead to leave them where they are!"

Releasing her, Montparnasse reached into the dead man's pockets. "Nothing," he said softly. "You didn't see the man who did it?"

"What do you want? If you aren't going to kill me, what do you want to do?" asked the woman.

Montparnasse rolled his eyes. "I want to know who killed him. Tell me and _I_ won't kill _you_."

"It was a moment ago. I came into the alley here and saw something dark, and then it was gone. He was lying here—"

"Claquesous," Montparnasse said. "He's here somewhere."

"Monsieur!" the woman gasped, "Monsieur, will you get the police? Will you help me?" She was crying again.

"Of course, my lady," he answered suavely, bowing. She turned back to the dead man, and Montparnasse sprang on her, drawing his knife across her throat. She was too surprised to scream, simply falling in a heap on the ground. Montparnasse took the rose from his buttonhole and threw it on her body.

He hurried out of the alley, wiping his hands on his pocket-handkerchief, then tossing the bloody cloth on the ground. The cuff of his sleeve was stained; he muttered a curse under his breath.

Montparnasse had heard nothing of the others since the night of the failed Gorbeau robbery. He did not know where to find Claquesous, and did not know where else to obtain information about the gang's escape. A few months had passed, and he had taken to searching for the ventriloquist in the night. This murder was the closest he had come to finding the only other free member of the Patron-Minette.

As he turned toward the markets in hopes of finding a fresh rose from some absent-minded vendor, Montparnasse saw a familiar shape wandering toward the river. He sneaked up behind the girl and seized her, one arm around her waist and the other hand covering her mouth. She stood completely still, every muscle strained against him.

"Cop," he hissed mischievously. He felt her relax at the sound of his voice. She tried to say something, but he didn't move his hand from her mouth. Annoyed, she thrust a bony elbow into his stomach.

Montparnasse gasped and let her go, bent double. "I didn't know you were out," he coughed. "Why'd they let you go?"

Éponine shrugged. "Why did you try to frighten me?"

It was Montparnasse's turn to shrug. Éponine started to leave, but he stopped her. "How long have you been out?"

"About a month. What do you want?"

"To talk to you. Come with me."

"I'll not go back to your bridge, Montparnasse. That lump hurt for weeks."

He laughed. "I have a few lumps of my own. Don't worry, I'm not at the bridge anymore."

"Then I'll come," she agreed.

As he led her through the street, Montparnasse said, "What have you been doing all this time, then?"

"Errands," she answered vaguely.

* * *

Montparnasse awoke, but did not open his eyes. Éponine made another slow movement, and he realised what had disturbed him: she was trying to slide out from under his arm without waking him. He lay still until she was completely free, then heard her pull on her clothes and climb down the ladder of the stable loft. He got dressed and, pulling straw out of his hair, followed her.

Éponine walked softly through the streets, yet Montparnasse was almost certain that she had a specific destination in mind. When she reached to Boulevard de la Sainté, he wondered if she knew he was following her. Perhaps she, too, wanted a different ending to that night—but why had she come in the daylight? He ducked behind a tree and watched as she continued through the Field of the Lark, looked around, exclaimed, "Ah, there he is!" and hurried over to the brook. Montparnasse could not see what she was talking about, and crept closer, crouching by a bush several feet away.

A young man was seated on a wall there, and he looked up at the sound of Éponine's voice.

Montparnasse frowned. Why had she been come to this student? Neither Éponine nor the stranger spoke until the former said, "I've found you, then? Father Mabeuf was right; it was on this boulevard. How I've looked for you! If you only knew! Do you know that? I've been in the jug. Two weeks. They let me go, since there was nothing against me. And then I'm still a minor. Two months to go. Oh, how I've looked for you! Six weeks now. You don't live there any longer?"

At last the young man spoke. "No."

Montparnasse frowned. This happy little beggar, chatting blithely with the dark-haired student in the Field of the Lark was not the same Éponine he had known. This girl laughed; she babbled despite the young man's silence; she smiled a true smile the likes of which he had not seen in nearly a year, since the last time they had been in this field together.

She was still prattling merrily to, or rather at, the student. "Hey, look! Why are you wearing such an old hat? A young man like you must have fine clothes. D'you know, Monsieur Marius, Father Mabeuf calls you Baron Marius, I forgot what else. It's not true that you're a baron?"

Ah, so that was it. Éponine was attracted to the boy's riches and title. A baron! Montparnasse clenched his teeth and looked at the baron's clothes. His pants were shiny at the knees and the elbows of his jacket were turning white. His cravat was crooked, but his shoes were impeccably shined. Montparnasse looked down at his own boots and began scrubbing a bit of mud from the toe with the palm of his hand.

"Ah!" she continued, "you have a hole in your shirt. I must mend it for you. You don't seem glad to see me?"

The young murderer was pleased to note that the baron did not, in fact, seem glad of Éponine's presence. He had looked at the straw in her hair once, but seemed to be thinking of something else—or perhaps someone else. Montparnasse smirked to himself. One could only hope.

"But if I wanted I could easily make you look happy."

Montparnasse's eyes widened. What the hell...?

"How?" the baron asked. "What do you mean?"

Éponine hesitated, and Montparnasse began to worry. What was that desperate slut planning now?

"Who cares, it makes no difference. You look sad, I want you to be glad. But promise me that you'll laugh. I want to see you laugh and hear you say, 'Ah, well! That's good!'"

Montparnasse glared at the both of them. Éponine didn't care whether or not he laughed.

"Poor Monsieur Marius! You know, you promised me you would give me whatever I should ask—"

"Yes! But tell me!"

Here Montparnasse barely stifled a derogatory snort. He wasn't aware anyone could be as dense as this baron apparently was. Éponine obviously wanted _something_ from him, and here he was promising to give her anything she asked!

"I have the address," she said heavily.

The baron's face lost what little colour it had. "What address?"

"The address... you know well enough."

"Y-yes!"

"The young lady's!" Éponine said at last, then sighed as if her heart would break. Suddenly Montparnasse understood everything: Éponine fancied this baron, but he loved someone else. He was surprised that Éponine couldn't see that her feelings were unwelcome. She should know when to leave the boy alone.

The baron leapt to his feet and seized Éponine's hand. She stared at him in shock. "Oh! Come! Show me the way, tell me! Ask me for anything you like! Where is it?"

"How pleased you are," Éponine said wretchedly. Her miserable tone brought Montparnasse's attention back, and he could help but feel a bit of pity for her.

The baron seized her arm. "Swear to me one thing!"

"Swear?" Éponine repeated. "What does that mean? So now you want me to swear?"

"Your father! Promise me, Éponine! Swear to me that you won't give this address to your father!"

"Éponine!" she gasped. "How d'you know my name is Éponine?"

"Promise me what I ask you!" he said feverishly.

"That's nice! You called me Éponine!"

Montparnasse laughed again. He was not sure whether Éponine knew when she was being difficult, but he recognised her single-mindedness from the old days. The baron was lucky if she heard him at all.

"But answer me, for heaven's sake!" he kept on. "Pay attention to what I'm saying, swear that you won't give the address you know to your father!"

"My father?" she said blankly. "Oh! Yes, my father! Don't worry about him. He's in solitary. Besides, I don't concern myself with my father!"

Or anyone else, Montparnasse added silently.

"But you aren't promising me!" the baron persisted.

Montparnasse rolled his eyes as the poor crazed boy carefully made Éponine swear to keep the address secret. They started to leave, but Éponine said, "By the way, you know you've promised me something?"

The baron produced a coin and offered it to her, but she let it fall to the ground. "I don't want your money," she sighed.

The two left, and Montparnasse waited until he was certain they were gone. A few women were washing their clothes in the brook, but they were intent on their work and uninterested in anything else happening around them. He swiftly left his hiding place, crept across the field, stooped, and retrieved the five francs.


	18. The Price of a Purse

A/N- Ah, today Montparnasse must reflect. Yay. By the way, I couldn't find the definition for "ganache" anywhere. This is what Montparnasse is supposed to say at one point, where my translations say "Old babbler" or "Blockhead," neither of which I really wanted to use. They sound kind of... lame. So I compromised. But if anyone happens to know what "ganache" means, and why it wasn't in my dictionary or on freetranslation, I'd love for you to tell me.

Obsetress- Yay, you're back! I missed you... Really, I did. I know phases like that... just look at my sporadic updating of The New Production.

AmZ- As to the random woman, we could say that she was in shock, and maybe a little stupid to boot. I knew as soon as I wrote her in that something would be wrong about her, and I was right!

Elyse3- I wondered if anyone would notice my boots moment. I keep trying to stick in random things with which I hope to get some sort of response from observant reviewers... things like Dupont. And naming most of my lovely ladies after the women in VH's life.

Rei- Hey, I ramble all the time, so I'll follow you. I won't be able to stop writing fanfiction until I've written every story I have brewing in my head. And that's a lot, so don't worry about that! And I definitely won't disappear till I'm done with this one.

JenValjean24601- I'm glad you've joined us! There really aren't enough fics dedicated to the Patron-Minette.

Mizamour- _-salutes-_Can do! In fact... have done!

* * *

Summer drew nearer and evenings became warmer, and Montparnasse had not seen Éponine since their second visit to the Field of the Lark, so different from the first. In fact, even when he did see her again they did not speak, for she did not see him. Much to his own exasperation, Éponine seemed to be content without thinking of him. Montparnasse told himself that soon he would stop thinking about her, that he would be able to live like Babet, who had abandoned his wife and children—or, as he liked to say, mislaid them—without ever glancing back.

And so, one night Montparnasse left his loft to find money, a woman, or Claquesous. This odd combination brought a thin smile to his lips. He straightened his cravat and turned toward the markets, approaching the first flower vendor he noticed in search of a rose. He slipped forward and reached for the nearest bud, but the old woman seemed to sense his presence and turned to face him, moving the basket out of his reach. "Good evening, mother," he said softly. "I'd really rather just take my rose and leave you breathing, if it pleases you."

"You!" she said shrilly. Montparnasse winced and glanced about to make sure she had not attracted unwanted attention. "Vain, silly boy! What path have you taken?"

"I don't understand, mother, but I will have to ask you to lower your voice, for your own sake," he responded, fingering the end of his cane.

The old woman did not comply. "Your vile mischief, your vanity, your arrogance! Can you not see where they will lead you? Do not pride yourself on what can be seen, boy, or you will fall! You will be punished for your vanity!"

"And I suppose you shall be the one to do it, am I right, mother?" Montparnasse asked, unable to keep the amusement out of his voice.

"I will not be the one to take it from you! No, your blindness will be your downfall! You are to blame for your own future, boy!"

Montparnasse graciously tipped his hat. "That's all very well, madame, and I thank you for the sermon. May I have a rose, or shall I take it by force?"

The old woman took the smallest bloom from her basket and threw it to the ground, then spat at Montparnasse's shoes for good measure. He swore and stepped away, retrieved the rose and took out his dagger, but the woman had gone. "Crazy old witch," Montparnasse muttered between his teeth.

He was in the process of tucking the rose into his buttonhole when her saw her again. Éponine was passing on the other side of the street, walking silently with her eyes straight ahead. Curious, Montparnasse followed her, carefully matching each step he took with hers so as to make no sound. It did not take long for him to realise that he was in pursuit of one who followed another. Ahead of Éponine he could just see the thin form and pale face of the baron as he turned a corner—a corner that Éponine herself turned moments later.

Montparnasse wondered vaguely where the baron was taking her, and what had happened to the young lady whose address Éponine had given him. He slackened his pace and concentrated on being invisible, something he did well, though not as well as Claquesous. Making his footsteps silent, blending into shadows: these were tricks he had learned and perfected since he was very young. Quite abruptly, however, he saw Éponine stop and sit in the darkness, watching the baron as he turned and went into another street. Montparnasse looked about and recognised the Rue Plumet. Then, satisfied that the baron and Éponine were not off to some devious meeting, he left her in solitude.

He walked alone, thinking of Éponine first, then her pathetic infatuation with the baron, who was in love with some other little slut and did not care for her at all. He actually pitied Éponine a bit, considering how it would feel to be so ignored. He then thought of Claquesous, the only other free member of the Patron-Minette, and wondered when the others would get out. He was actually surprised that they had stayed quietly in the prison for so long, making no contact with him. Montparnasse assumed that Claquesous was helping him in the noble cause of keeping the number of citizens of Paris reasonably controlled. Still, a group job would make a welcome change from the lone murders he had been forced to perform of late. This brought his thoughts back to this night, and the need for a quick job and a bit of money for a whore, a luxury he had enjoyed with the five francs piece the baron and Éponine had dropped in the Field of the Lark.

He was passing through the Rue de Babylone, and at this time a person emerged from the wall.

Montparnasse blinked and stopped. An old man with a head of white hair had stepped casually out of a brick wall, and had begun walking calmly in the other direction, as though this was nothing at all out of the ordinary.

Realising that this could be the easy robbery he had hoped for, Montparnasse moved the rose from his buttonhole to his mouth, an unnecessary motion considering the rest of the gang was in prison and Claquesous would not have interfered if he did happen to notice him. He followed the old man, reminding himself to check that wall later.

He pursued the stranger silently, waiting to attack until they reached a more deserted spot. They passed La Salpêtrière, but he did nothing until they were in the village of Austerlitz. In the shadows of a tall hedge where Montparnasse felt hidden he tossed the rose to one side and sprang upon the old man.

Montparnasse expected to have this victim under his power and his purse in his hand in a matter of moments. He had begun to go over the grisettes that he knew would submit to him, perhaps even cry a little if he hit them, when the old man surprised him.

He was reminded of the time he had called Gueulemer's name only a few yards away from a policeman. Suddenly Montparnasse felt himself caught in a grip so strong he heard a cracking down his backbone as he fought hopelessly for freedom. Montparnasse struggled with all of his energy; at last he was too exhausted to continue and, in some sort of animal instinct, went completely limp. As the old man pinned him to the ground with his knee, Montparnasse thought he heard a sound like applause, but his concentration remained on the old man. He lay perfectly still, wondering if his attacker would move on if he thought him dead.

The old man stood and said to Montparnasse, "Get up."

Unable to think of any way to escape, Montparnasse grudgingly got to his feet as the would-be victim kept a grip on him.

"How old are you?" he asked softly.

Montparnasse scowled. "Nineteen."

Looking at him carefully, the old man said, "You are strong and healthy. Why don't you work?"

"It bores me," Montparnasse shrugged. He saw that his answer bothered the old man, and smiled to himself. Here was a way to win this fight, in the end.

"What is your business?"

"Loafer."

The old man was plainly irritated now. "Talk sense. Can I do anything to help you? What would you like to be?"

"Thief," he answered shortly.

The old man stood completely still, lost in thought. Montparnasse thought that this could be the chance to break away, and he tried to escape, but he was holding both his arms in one hand with an astonishing strength. Every attempt Montparnasse made went unnoticed.

All of this because he wanted money for a whore.

At last the old man raised his head, looking Montparnasse in the eye, and began to speak solemnly. He spoke of work, of hard labour, and of sweat and pain. He warned that all "loafers" were headed on this path, fated to work harder than any slave. He spoke of a labour and pain so intense with suffering that normal professions, blacksmiths and harvesters, would seem like princes. The desperate craftiness of the criminal, the yawning black doors of the prison; all of these became real to Montparnasse as he saw them in the old man's glittering eyes. He mentioned the things that Montparnasse sought now—fancy clothes, pretty hair, female company—and then told him of what he would receive in their stead: a shaven head, a red smock, clogs, shackles, and a whip. The old man's eyes widened at his own words, showing a familiar terror that had not lessened over many years. He spoke of wasted lives, warning Montparnasse that he would enter the prison at twenty, but leave it at fifty. His voice and words were real, true, and laden with pain.

"And now, what do you want of me?" he said at last. "My purse? Here it is."

He finally released Montparnasse and closed the thief's hand over his purse, which seemed full enough. Montparnasse let it slide into the back pocket of his coat, as if this sly motion would somehow preserve his wounded dignity.

The man, having said his piece, turned and walked quietly away, his white hair fading into the blackness of the night.

Montparnasse rolled his eyes and muttered, "Babbler."

But there was no question in his mind whether the old man's words were true. His stories mirrored those he had heard from Gueulemer and Babet, both of whom had escaped from some jail at least once before. A part of him knew that the old man spoke the truth.

Montparnasse had never thought that his lifestyle could have consequences. He had not yet been caught after any crime, and he had performed a good number of them, so he had considered himself invincible. Yet the day would inevitable come that he was not quick enough, that he would be jailed. Then, would be try to escape? Of course. Would he be caught again? Possibly. And then his life would be what the old man had said.

When had he made his first mistake? Montparnasse tried to think back.

He had joined—if not formed—the Patron-Minette at fifteen years. Most boys still lived with their mothers at this age, attending school somewhere and just beginning to look at young ladies. Montparnasse had never been inside a school, having learned every lesson he needed from the others in the gang. But then, he had learned life lessons before he had even heard of Babet, Gueulemer, or Claquesous. He had been a known murderer before Babet had found him. What had been the beginning, if not that?

Juliette? Her startlingly blue eyes and cruel smile emerged from the darkness. His first murder... it still pained him to think of her. Had the knife from the clumsy bourgeois's purse turned his entire life around?

No. He had been a thief long before he had been a murderer.

Montparnasse remembered staring at a bakery display window, his stomach aching for food. He reached into his pocket and found exactly what he expected to find—nothing. When had he last eaten? A sympathetic bourgeois had handed him two sous last Tuesday, which he had spent within the hour. It was Sunday, and he had not eaten since. He had no money, but he refused to starve. He certainly could not go grovelling back to Madame Buffon. It only took a second to break the glass and seize a little cake. He sprinted down the street and leapt into the open sewer grating he thought of as his front door, crouching in the shadows with the cake clutched to his chest, warm against his pounding heart. His hand was bleeding from the glass; he quickly licked off the blood and sugar, marvelling at the way the metallic taste of blood mixed with the sweetness of the icing.

Montparnasse frowned to himself. He had left Madame Buffon at six, stolen a cake at seven, and thus began his new life. The old man had assured him that this road could only take him to jail and, later, the guillotine. Could he turn around? Could he become a good citizen, if he wanted to?

Montparnasse thought of what Claquesous would say if he told him that he was going clean. He considered the reaction of the police. They would never believe him. He would be arrested and jailed, and he was certain that the time he would have to spend for all of his murders and robberies would be a longer stretch than the rest of his life. He had passed the point of no return long ago.

His mind made up, Montparnasse felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He would live his life, indulging in everything he wished and enjoying his youth and freedom while it lasted. When he began to grow old, his youth and looks fading into grey hairs and wrinkles, he would perhaps let down his guard a bit. Montparnasse nodded to himself; a smile appeared on his face, and decided which girl he would visit to-night.

He reached into his back pocket.

The purse was gone.

"Damn!"


	19. Of Elephants and Ropes

A/N- Yay, I'm back from camp... And now I'm desperately trying to update everything before I go back to work... La. This is one of my longest chapters, I think... Not really much else to say.

Rei- Isn't it interesting how much the gamin does in that chapter, even though he's never directly revealed? That's the fun of doing from Parnasse's point of view instead of Gavroche's ...

M. Mabeuf- Now for some reason I have a mental image of Marius, Eponine, and Montparnasse in a little congo line, dancing down the twilit streets of Paris. 'Tis incredibly amusing.

Elyse3- You do, in fact, have that part in your profile. It's one of my favourite parts as well. The interesting thing is, I originally wrote that chapter before I'd seen/heard POTO, and when I was proofing and editing it after POTO I was highly amused and decided to leave that line in, despite the fact that I was certain it would provide something of a distraction.

AmZ- Ah... Again I show how little I actually know about life in the 19th century. Actually, everything I know is from LM or this one research site dedicated to LM that I found quite by accident.

nebulia- Itactually wasn't meant to beMme. Buffon, but I suppose it could be if you wanted. I actually had the crazy beggar woman from Sweeney Todd in mind as I wrote that, and you'll see why she's in there later. Heh... yay for foreshadowing.

ArgentineRose- Why wouldn't they have that in my French/English dictionary? I suppose it's the type of word that one doesn't use too much in day-to-day conversation... Well, thanks very much for sharing your genius.

Cecilia Carlton- Thanks very much. Interestingly enough, both of those phrases were ones that I left unedited despite the fact that I found them extremely awkward and desperately wanted to reword them. I'm very glad they weren't as bad as I found them.

JenValjean24601- But of course, we must include pensive!Montparnasse and the cheekiness. Not to mention the importance the hidden door has later on. Ooh... I say too much.

redandblackapollo- There's no such thing as a bad review. No really, there isn't. Even a one-word review (as long as the word isn't "crap") makes me very happy. Ooh, a stuffed bunny named Montparnasse? That's such a good idea. My teddy bear's name is Jojo... Um. I love the Patron-Minette as well. In fact, I'm considering changing my C2 to a community of Patron-Minette fics. It'd be nice to have them all in one place other than my favourites list.

Banba- Juliette is an upsetting memory because... well, it's like if you loved (or were infatuated with) someone, and they stomped on your heart. This has happened to me, and at the time I really did consider cutting the boy's throat. But now I don't really like to think about him, because it brings back all the crappy memories of feeling betrayed... etc. As to vampyric Parnasse, have you read Obsetress's "Beware Eponine the Evil Vampire"? I think that's what it's called. It's quite an interesting little ficlet.

kedic- On the contrary, personal opinions are what makes reviews helpful. As to all the crazy bloody stuff in nastinessof this fic, I'm sort of a Jekyll and Hyde character myself. Jekyll by day, the goodgirl who's friends laugh at her behind her back because sherefuses to swear, even when ordering tickets for "Damn Yankees"over thephone, referring to it as, "That Yankees show." And if you're that... what's the word... innocent? virginal? I dunno...in life, you've gotta let outall the morbidity and bloodlust somewhere. This fic is my outlet. So, it's darkly disturbing.

Frances de Medici- It's interesting, but I originally portrayed him as a good guy who wasin a bad position, but now, as Iedit andretype the story, he's coming out a lotmore IC. But yeah, I love how Montparnasse has such agreat character in thebook, despite being very minor. I think Victor Hugo really lovedthe character, judgingby the way he describesand uses him.

Verity- I was so proud of that idea when I first hit upon it. I really enjoy tossing Montparnasse into the story we already know to tie up loose ends. Although in the end I've confused myselfenough totake my own additionsas canon...But I get easily confused.

* * *

Montparnasse was lying on his back in the stable loft one evening when a voice hissed, "They're drawing a crampe to-night!"

He sat up. "Claquesous?"

"Babet was to be transferred to the Conciergerie, but he moved into a different queue during inspection. You'll meet him outside and wait for Gueulemer and Brujon there."

"Brujon?"

"He shows promise. If you aren't helpful to-night he could take your place at the head. Come in disguise."

Montparnasse got to his feet. "Don't you plan to help them, then?"

There was no answer. Claquesous had gone.

"I really do hate him," Montparnasse muttered. He went to a corner of the loft and uncovered a crate half-buried in the straw, from which he extracted several little accessories he had purchased from the Changer in the Rue Beautreillis. He dropped a pair of quills into his pocket and put a set of blue spectacles on his nose. "We shall see," he whispered to himself.

As he was pulling together his disguise he thought about this escape attempt. If any of the bandits were recaptured he would be put in solitary under constant watch. Chances of another escape were slim, and then...

The old man's words, although he had chosen to ignore them, still weighed heavily on Montparnasse's mind. He continued to think of his childhood, wondering what would have happened had he never met Juliette, had he stayed with Madame Buffon. And then he thought of Madame Buffon. She had saved his life as an infant and tried to raise him as a child, yet he had discarded her the way Babet had discarded his wife and children. He remembered his childhood as a gamin. Were all gamins fated to become robbers and murderers, constantly hiding from the police and expecting to feel a hand on their shoulders? Were they all headed to the scaffold? These thoughts were heavy on his mind as he set off for the prison. It was purely chance, then, that he happened to see a familiar little frame sauntering down the street, his nose high in the air.

"Hello, is that you, Gavroche?" Montparnasse called as the boy passed him.

"Hello, is that you, Montparnasse?" Gavroche took in the young man's disguise. "You sly one! You have a hide the colour of mustard poultice and blue specs like a doctor. You're right in style, old man."

Montparnasse hushed him, glancing at the door of the prison at the end of the street. "Not so loud." He pulled the boy into the shadows. "Do you know where I'm going?"

"To the scaffold, most likely," he answered cheekily.

The words, echoing his own thoughts, seemed strangely loud in Montparnasse's ears. "Idiot," he said roughly, "I'm going to find Babet."

"Ah, her name is Babet!" the boy grinned.

"Not her—his."

"Ah," said Gavroche, "Babet!"

"Yes, Babet."

The boy frowned. "I thought he was locked up."

"He slipped through the keyhole," Montparnasse smiled. Forgetting his concerns, he explained to Gavroche how Babet had escaped, as Claquesous had explained it to him.

Gavroche nodded, impressed. "Quite some dentist."

"Those cops will curse themselves for their own stupidity. Still, that escape won't work again." Looking at Gavroche, he remembered what he had come to say, but wasn't sure how to go about it. "Oh, that's not all!"

Gavroche seized the cane Montparnasse was holding and tugged at the end, revealing the knife hidden inside. "Ah," he smiled, "you've brought your gendarme disguised as a bourgeois." He pushed the blade away.

Montparnasse winked.

"The devil! Then you're going to have a tussle with the cops?"

"One never knows. It's always smart to have a pin on you."

"What are you up to to-night?" the gamin asked.

"A thing or two," he said significantly. Again he tried to bring up the old man's warning. "By the way..."

"What?"

"A tale of yesterday. Just imagine. I met a bourgeois. He makes me a present of a sermon and his purse. I put that in my pocket. A minute later, I felt in my pocket. There's nothing there."

"Except the sermon," Gavroche nodded. He had a mischievous look in his eyes that Montparnasse ignored.

He thought of what the boy had said regarding the scaffold. "But you," he said, "where are you off to?"

Gavroche misunderstood. He pointed to two little boys standing nearby and said, "I'm going to bed down the children."

"Where do they sleep?" Montparnasse asked, giving up on his own story.

The boy smiled. "At my house."

"Your house. Where's that?"

"At my house," Gavroche repeated.

Montparnasse looked carefully at the boy. How could he have a house, young as he was, with his parents in jail and his sister who-knows-where? "So you've got a room?"

"Yes, I've got a room."

"And where is your room?" Montparnasse persisted.

The gamin smiled again and leaned toward him, as if ready to share a particularly delicious secret. "In the elephant."

Montparnasse started. "In the elephant!" At first he did not understand, but then he remembered the old crumbling elephant statue under which he and Dupont had often hidden from the rain.

"Yes, in the elephant. What's the matter with that?"

The young man shrugged slightly. "Oh, I see... yes, the elephant. Is it nice there?"

"Very nice," Gavroche nodded. "Really first-rate. It's less drafty than under bridges."

Montparnasse ignored the edge to the boy's words. He was probably referring to Montparnasse's previous place, no doubt teasing him. "How do you get in?"

"I get in."

"There's a hole?"

The boy swore. "You mustn't tell. It's between the forelegs. The cops haven't seen it."

"And you climb up...? Yes, I see." Montparnasse was a little annoyed that he and Dupont had never thought that the statue they had used for shelter might have been hollow, and could have been a room. Montparnasse had spent his childhood in the sewers and under bridges. When he had moved to the loft hardly six months ago he had thought himself terribly clever. But the elephant, really! Perhaps Gavroche was smarter than he had ever been. Perhaps this boy would not have to resort to murder to make a living.

"A flick of the wrist, crick, crack, it's done, gone," the gamin said grandly. "For these kids I'll need a ladder."

It was only then that Montparnasse looked carefully at the two little boys at Gavroche's side, both of which seemed to look rather like the gamin. One of them was intent on shoving his finger into his nose; the other was staring at the thief's cane-dagger in wide-eyed terror. He couldn't help but laugh. "Where the devil did you get these brats?"

"These kiddos came as a present from a wig-maker."

The boy's finger in his nose had caused Montparnasse to remember his own disguise, and the quills in his pocket. "You recognised me very easily," he muttered. And he put the quills bound with cotton in his nose. It was an uncomfortable disguise, and Montparnasse never liked to modify his own appearance.

"That changes you," Gavroche said gleefully. "It's an improvement. You should wear them all the time."

"Joking aside, how d'you like it?" asked Montparnasse. He winced at the nasal sound of his own voice, altered by the quills.

"How about giving us Punch and Judy?" Gavroche teased.

Montparnasse was thinking of a response when he happened to notice a policeman several steps away. Putting a hand on Gavroche's shoulder, he said gravely, using a phrase of argot he had taught the boy on a whim, "Listen to this, boy, if I were on the Square, with my dogue, my dague, and my digue, and if you were so prodigal as to offer me twenty fat sous, I wouldn't refuse to work for them, but this isn't Mardi Gras."

The gamin glanced around and spotted the cop. "Ah, yes! Well," he smiled, shaking Montparnasse's hand, "good night. I'm off to my elephant with my kids. On the supposition that you should need me some night, you'll find me there. I live on the second floor. There's no doorman. Just ask for Monsieur Gavroche."

"Fine," said Montparnasse. He turned and went in the direction of the Grève.

* * *

"Of course, Claquesous isn't here," Montparnasse said upon finding Babet.

The frail criminal simply shrugged his shoulders. "I don't concern myself with Claquesous."

Montparnasse frowned. "Well, you're out, anyway."

"And so are the others," smiled Babet, "Look."

Two figures had appeared in the rain and were hurrying toward them, their heads bent against the wind. A storm had broken the stillness of the night.

"That was easy," Babet muttered.

A man that Montparnasse assumed must be Brujon glared sharply at him, tucking a piece of rope into his shirt. "Easy for you! All you did was switch queues!"

Ignoring him, Babet reached into a bag he had slung over his shoulder and gave the men hats and, in Gueulemer's case, quills. "Not that you could very well disguise yourself, huge as you are."

Gueulemer either did not hear him over the wind or chose not to respond. "Let's go."

But Montparnasse shook his head. "What about Jondrette?"

"Who? Oh, the innkeeper," Brujon said. "Thénardier."

"Right."

Babet squinted at Montparnasse. "We'll wait for him."

The thieves spent the night pacing the streets around La Force, waiting for the old innkeeper to appear. Morning came, bringing no end to the storm, and all four men were soaked. Montparnasse followed Babet down the little Rue Pavée at some distance. They stopped at a gate and waited for Gueulemer and Brujon to catch up. Montparnasse lifted the latch and the four men entered an abandoned courtyard.

"Let's go," Brujon growled. "What are we doing here?"

Babet seemed to agree with him. "It's raining enough to put out the devil's fire. And then the police are all around. There's a soldier standing guard. Are we going to let them pick us up here?"

"No emergency yet," Montparnasse insisted. "Let's wait a little. How do you know he won't need our help?"

Brujon frowned disdainfully at him. "What's this you're telling us? The innkeeper couldn't give the slip. He doesn't even know the trade!" And he launched into a speech in argot, which Montparnasse did not try to follow, concluding with, "You've got to be the devil! That old man couldn't do it; he doesn't know how!"

"Your innkeeper must have been nabbed in the act. You have to be a devil," Babet added. "He's a _galifard_. He's been duped by a stool pigeon, or even a sheep, who got him to talk. Listen, Montparnasse, do you hear the cries in the prison? You've seen all those lights. They've got him, come on! He must be left to his twenty years. I'm not afraid, I'm no coward, that's known, but there's nothing more to be done, or otherwise they'll make us dance. Don't be angry," he said quickly, seeing that Montparnasse fingered his cane, "Come with us. Let's go drink a bottle of old wine together."

"You don't leave friends in difficulty," muttered Montparnasse. He knew that the others, especially the newcomer, Brujon, were quickly tiring of him, but at the moment he only cared that Éponine and Gavroche's father was not sent back into prison.

"I tell you he's nabbed," Brujon snarled. "Right now, the innkeeper isn't worth a penny! We can't do a thing. Let's go. Anytime now I expect to feel a hand on my shoulder."

"What if he's somewhere, crouched in a corner, watching each policeman that runs by and fearing to return to the same hell he has come from?"

"Prison is hardly hell, boy," Gueulemer said suddenly.

Montparnasse narrowed his eyes. "Then what is? I can't imagine a worse fate than being locked alone in a small room, away from all human contact but the guard outside in the hall, having scraps of old food pushed under the door for you and a board to sleep on at night, irons rubbing your neck and ankles the entire time."

"Come on, lad," Babet said wearily. His thin hair was plastered to his forehead and hollow cheeks, and rain dripped off of the cuffs of his sleeves. Montparnasse's coloured glasses had long ago become opaque with rain and fog, and he had dropped them into his pocket. He was exhausted, as were the others, and the more they spoke, the better a bottle of wine and a dry suit sounded.

As these thoughts of surrender were forming in his mind, something fell from the sky, landing at their feet. The four stared at it blankly for a moment.

"A rope," Babet observed at length.

"My rope!" amended Brujon.

Montparnasse could not help but smirk at the others. "There's the innkeeper."

At these words the men all looked up. At the top of the wall the silhouette of a grizzled head appeared: it was Thénardier, looking fatigued and soaked. He had escaped.

"Quick," Montparnasse said, "do you have the other end of the rope, Brujon?" He knew that the newcomer had it before he confirmed that he did, as he had seen Brujon with it earlier that night. "Tie the two ends together," continued Montparnasse, "we'll throw it to him, he'll fasten it to the wall, and he'll have enough to get down."

"I'm numb," Thénardier said feebly, his voice carried on the wind.

Montparnasse looked up at him, squinting against the rain, and shrugged. "We'll warm you."

"I can't move."

"Slide down, we'll catch you."

"My hands are stiff."

"Just tie the rope to the wall."

"I can't."

Montparnasse frowned at the innkeeper. It was really rather cold, and he was beginning to remember that Éponine had never actually cared for her father too much. Hadn't she said to the baron, "I don't concern myself with my father"? So what would be so terrible about leaving the old grumbler where he was? A look at the others told him that, now that they had found the fifth man, they could not just leave him. "One of us has to get up there," he said.

"Three storeys," Brujon said irritably.

Scanning the area, Montparnasse spotted an old stovepipe clinging to the wall. "We could get up by that," he suggested, pointing.

"By that flue!" Babet cried. "A man, never! It would take a child."

"It would take a kid," Brujon agreed.

Gueulemer spoke. "Where can we find a brat?"

"Wait," said Montparnasse. He squinted up at the old man on the top of the wall. This was, after all, Éponine and Gavroche's father, and to let him freeze at the top of a wall was a cruelty toward a fellow con that even he would not be comfortable allowing. After all, hadn't Gavroche once said, "We thieves must stick together"?

And then the answer struck him: he knew where to find a child. "I've got the answer," Montparnasse declared, smiling.

He left the little courtyard and made his way to the elephant. It never occurred to Montparnasse that involving little Gavroche in this escape might further him down that road he himself had taken—the road he had worried that Gavroche would be fated to travel. In fact, it was a long time before the old stranger's speech crossed his mind again.


	20. Beyond the Wall

A/N- Um... apparently I'm not allowed to answer reviews anymore on pain of removal. Having been punished for several script parodies and such, I post in mortal fear of losing my account. So... Basically, I incredibly sorry for the delay, but school started Thursday and work got all crazy and blah. But I'm back, and it's getting near to my favourite chapters and, eventually, the end of the tale! And I apologize for the crappiness of this chapter.

* * *

Thénardier and the rest made it to safety with the help of Gavroche and Montparnasse. The other men spent the next day in the sewers, keeping themselves hidden. Montparnasse, however, did not wish to stay in such a filthy sanctuary, and returned to his bridge. He lay on his back and scowled at the beams under the roof of the stable.

Babet had reminded him that it was unwise to stay outdoors after such a manoeuvre as they had pulled, saying that the police would be especially thorough in a search of the city. Montparnasse had shrugged at him and turned to go, but Babet's warning stayed in his mind. He doubted that he would be caught—after all, he had been pilfering and pillaging his way through the more fortunate citizens of Paris for at least four years now, and the police had yet to lay their hands on him. Still, Babet's words had reminded him of those of that old man from the Rue de Babylone.

Montparnasse sat up, running his fingers through his hair to rid it of the bits of straw. He swore as he ripped through a tangle, and irritably got to his feet. It was almost evening, and something had been struggling for his attention for two days now.

It was growing dark by the time he reached the Rue de Babylone, and Montparnasse leaned against the vine-covered wall and waited. There were hardly more than three stars in the sky when he heard a rustling among the vines, and the old white-haired man appeared as he had before, emerging from a solid wall. He did not spy Montparnasse as he left the street and disappeared from view. The moment his white hair faded into the twilight, the young thief hurried to the spot and pushed the vines aside. It was just as he had suspected—a wooden door was hidden behind the foliage. Checking the street to be sure that none could observe him, Montparnasse pulled the door open and slipped inside.

He found himself in a long passage with high walls built up on either side. Never one to leave a mystery unsolved, Montparnasse decided to follow the path.

His mind wandered as he walked. He thought first of this old man, who appeared from walls and gave sermons to bandits, and then of Babet. Everyone seemed to be preaching to him, warning him that something terrible loomed on the horizon. Even the flower vendor he had encountered a few days ago had screeched at him about his mortality and vanity.

The pathwent on for what must have been a full mile. Growing restless, Montparnasse was beginning to consider attempting to scale one of the walls on either side of the path when he saw the end: another wooden door.

He pushed the door open.

Montparnasse was in a dank, musty cellar. He made no move or noise for as long as he could endure; then, when no sound came from above, climbed the old stairs and found himself in a little room, sparsely furnished and with nothing of value but a little box on the mantle. Thinking to gain something from this trying experience, the thief lifted the lid of the box. Inside he saw some sort of black cloth--a little dress. He rolled his eyes and slammed the lid closed, then left the room.

He was in the little courtyard behind an old house, having just emerged from what looked like the gardener's building. Ducking from shadow to shadow, Montparnasse skirted the house and came to an overgrown garden. There was a large gate at the other end through which he could possibly escape, but even as the thought crossed his mind a problem arose.

The door of the house swung open, and a pretty girl in a flattering dress hurried out. Montparnasse tried to hide but was not quick enough. The girl saw him and started, a hand flying up to cover her mouth. Realising that she was terrified, Montparnasse located his dagger, waved it at her, and put a finger to his lips. The girl nodded, wide-eyed, and he turned toward the street.

A figure appeared at the gate, pushing aside a loose bar and slipping inside. The girl saw this, glanced nervously at Montparnasse, and ran to the newcomer. The thief ducked behind a bush near a bench by the gate and watched them carefully. He tried to get a better look at the newcomer, but a shadow had fallen across his face.

"Cosette," the man whispered breathlessly, taking her hand and pressing her fingertips to his lips.

The girl smiled at him—a strained smile—and said nothing.

"What is it, my angel?" he asked, taking several steps toward the bench near which Montparnasse was concealed.

"Marius!" she said quickly. "Perhaps we should walk around the garden before we sit. I- I want to show you something."

This name sounded familiar to Montparnasse, but he couldn't place it. The girl pulledher loveraway, past the bars of the gate, and the light of a streetlamp lit both their faces. With an unfamiliar lurch of the stomach, Montparnasse recognised Éponine's baron.

"You want to show me something?" the baron repeated. "What is it?"

"Come with me," she said, another tight smile forcing its way onto her prettyface. The two began to walk in the other direction, and Montparnasse crossed over to the gate. He found the loose bar and turned back to glance at the couple. The girl was watching him over her shoulder, so he gave a quick salute before pushing the bar aside and slipping out into the street, leaving the couple in their garden.

He glanced about and found that he was in the Rue Plumet. Ah, so this was where the baron went every night—to visit his pretty little Cosette while Éponine sulking about in the shadows.

Montparnasse glanced again at the big gate and the old house inside. He thought of Cosette and something struck him: she had been wearing a string of pearls around her neck.

An idea forming in his mind, Montparnasse hurried off to find the rest of the Patron-Minette.


	21. The Dog in the Garden

A/N- Argh, I'm sorry for the delay. I'm thinking, by the way, that the next chapter is my favourite of all... perhaps. I dunno. But I tried not to just have a vaguely rewritten version of this chapter in the book, considering that's what threw me off a few chapters ago. Still I'm not entirely confident about it... I feel like my writing is getting crappier and crappier.

* * *

A few nights later, the entire Patron-Minette assembled by the gate in the Rue Plumet. 

"It's here," Babet said.

Brujon frowned at the grate. "Is there a dog in the garden?"

"I don't know," replied Babet, who had come with Montparnasse to look over the place the night before. "In any case, I've brought a bullet that we'll make him eat."

Squinting up at the house, Gueulemer asked for the mastic, and Montparnasse gave it to him.

"The grating is old," Claquesous muttered.

"So much the better," said Brujon, shrugging his shoulders.

Montparnasse was watching Thénardier, who had crossed to the gate and was shaking the bars one by one. The nearest streetlamp was not near at all, and much of the wall was thrown into shadow. A soft glow from a candle in one of the upstairs windows barely illuminated the old man's features as he doggedly tried each bar. He was reaching for the one Montparnasse knew to be loose; the young thief felt anticipation rising up from inside him and he leaned forward onto his toes, slightly bobbing up and down. This would be far too easy—to break into the house while the old gardener was off on his nightly lecturing tours, obtain a little wealth, and, best of all, a chance to cut the throat of that empty-headed baron.

A hand shot out of the darkness beside the gate and attached itself to Thénardier's wrist; Montparnasse lost his balance and had to take a few steps backward. He recognised the rough voice that emerged from the shadows with another hand, which planted itself on Thénardier's chest and began pushing him away from the gate.

"There's a dog."

The old man gasped and recoiled as an angular, awkward shadow separated itself from the rest of the gloom, still keeping a grip on him. "What is this creature?"

"Your daughter," said that voice.

Montparnasse closed his eyes.

The plan, his genius idea, was slipping away. He had never seen Éponine come this close to the house; never had she actually ventured onto the Rue Plumet. He had guided the gang onto the street from the other end, careful to avoid her usual haunt, but to-night, of all nights, she had come closer. To-night her lust for that rich young man with his impeccably shined shoes had drawn her to the house, and she was here to stop the robbery and revenge he had worked to bring together.

Thénardier had reprimanded her; Éponine had responded with a false cheerfulness and kisses. Montparnasse frowned atat them. Brujon made a swift movement toward her from behind, and Montparnasse briefly remember a scene he had witnessed from his barn loft, when a half-starved hen had wandered in, a hungry fox close behind. He had not intervened to save the hen's life, but watched the slaughter with that familiar satisfaction and warmth in his veins. In this scene, however, with people in the roles of the hen and the fox, no blood was shed. Brujon was stopped by a warning look from Babet.

A familiar tune, strangely ethereal in the tense night, brought Montparnasse's thoughts back to the moment. Claquesous was singing under his breath.

Éponine also glanced at Claquesous and the others, and Montparnasse almost saw a new tactic forming in her shadowed eyes. "Why, that is Monsieur Brujon. Good evening, Monsieur Claquesous. Don't you remember me, Monsieur Gueulemer?"

And then she approached him. "How goes it, Montparnasse?"

"Yes," Thénardier growled, "they recognise you. But good evening! good night! good-by! Don't bother us!"

"It is the hour for foxes," Montparnasse added, "not hens."

"You see well enough that we are trying to work _icigo_," hissed Babet.

Icigo? That was new argot. Montparnasse was a bit surprised, for he had never heard Babet use anything but the argot of the Temple. And, on that subject, when he had first met Éponine she had spoken fluent argot as well as any thief, but sometime during the months in which he had abandoned her, she had switched to plain French.

Éponine took his hand, and he started at her touch. "Watch it, you'll cut yourself. I have a _lingre_ open."

Lingre? Why had he used argot?

"My darling Montparnasse," Éponine said, pretending to tease him and flirt, "we must have confidence in people. I am my father's daughter, perhaps. Monsieur Babet, Monsieur Gueulemer, it's I who was charged with finding out about this affair."

Montparnasse did not understand the last of her remark, nor did he bother to think on it. He was stung by her words: she had called him her "darling." Éponine was trying to use him to protect her baron.

Now shecould seethat he was set on entering the house, so she reached her free hand out and pressed it against Gueulemer's. Had she any charm, Montparnasse thought bitterly, she would be using it right now.

She insisted that the house was empty, and Montparnasse felt her fingers sliding out of his as she focused her attention on Gueulemer. He tightened his grip without thinking; she paused in her protests, turning to face him with a triumphant understanding in her eyes.

Gueulemer shook away from her other hand. "There are lone women."

"No," Éponine said, using her freed hand to hold Montparnasse's other one. "The people have moved away."

Babet laughed and pointed to a light shining from a window in the garret of the house. "The candles haven't."

"Well," said Éponine, "they're very poor, and it's a shanty where there isn't a sou."

"Go to the devil!" her father snarled viciously.

Éponine had completely pressed herself against Montparnasse; he could feel her chest rising and falling against his ribs, and a shadow of the pleasure he had once found with her made him slightly dizzy. He could feel her sharp hips against his, and he knew she could feel his reaction to her touch.

Her last chances were fading, and Éponine laid her cheek against Montparnasse's chest, dropping his hands to fling her arms around his neck. "My good friend Monsieur Montparnasse," Éponine cried, pushing herself even harder against him. He was surprised shedid not bruise herself. "I beg you, you're a good boy, don't go in!"

Montparnasse summoned the last of his resolve and shoved her away, almost weakly, saying, "Watch out, you'll cut yourself."

His knife was harmless in his pocket.

Éponine backed up to the gate. "So you want to go into that house?"

"Just a little," Claquesous sneered.

"Well," she said simply, "I don't want you to."

No one said a word.

Montparnasse felt his blood turn warm and his stomach pitch in fury; he sighed in relief. The dizziness and muddled thinking was gone, and in its place was his familiar feeling of violence. Éponine stood between him and a good night's work. She had tried everything to save that idiot baron, the man she somehow wanted despite everything Montparnasse had offered her, and she had gone so far to savehimas to pretend to care for Montparnasse.

With an even more overwhelming anger, Montparnasse remembered the only other girl who had said that she loved him in return for personal gain. Her corpse was rotting in a pauper's grave somewhere, that beautifully wicked face eaten away by maggots and time. His eyes travelled to Éponine's throat, and, fumbling,he took his knife from his pocket, accidentally cutting himself in his haste.

She threatened to cry out if any of them took a step toward her. Her own father tried it, and she raised her voice in warning. If she were to shout, the entire street would wake, the police would come, and she would turn them all in. She did not care if she died.

If you died, Montparnasse thought at her, I could kill your stupid baron with no impediments.

She laughed; her voice was a raspy growl. Her words were interrupted by several painful coughing fits. She covered her mouth with her hands; Montparnasse saw a tiny stream of blood leaking between her fingers.

Thénardier came toward her again.

"No you don't!" she said loudly.

"Well, no," the innkeeper said soothingly, "I won't touch you, but don't speak so loudly. My daughter, you wouldn't want to hinder us in our work? We still have to earn our keep. Don't you love you father anymore?"

"You disgust me," she answered scathingly.

"Still, we live, we have to eat—"

"Die."

And she sat down and began to sing to herself.

The others moved away, and Montparnasse wrestled his glare away from Éponine to join them.

"Something's the matter with her," Babet muttered. "Some reason. Is she in love with the dog? But it's a pity to miss out on this," he said, looking carefully at Montparnasse. "Two women, an old fellow who lives in a back court; there are pretty good curtains at the windows. The old fellow must be a Jew. Very promising."

"Well," said Montparnasse, "you go in, the rest of you. Do it. I'll stay here with the girl, and if she makes one false move..." he held his knife out in his bleeding hand.

Babet squinted at him again. Uncomfortable under his knowing gaze, Montparnasse looked over at the newcomer, Brujon, who was scratching his chin and staring skyward.

Of course Babet knew. Somehow he always seemed to understand Montparnasse, to read the feelings the young man took such pains to hide. It had been Babet who had brought him to the Patron-Minette, and Babet was the only other member of the four who had ever stayed with the same woman for more than a few nights.

"Let's go," Brujon said, his voice cutting through Montparnasse's thoughts. The others accepted this and turned to leave. Montparnasse glanced back at Éponine, who was sitting resolutely at the gate. "Even so, if they'd let me, I'd have made her feel the weight of my hand," he said to himself.

"Not me," Babet replied softly. "I don't hit ladies."

Montparnasse said nothing, but broke away from the others. He turned back once more and saw Éponine following them.

* * *

In a matter of minutes, he was in the Rue de Babylone. The passage did not seem so long now that he was certain of where it ended. He recognised some of the bends and the changing brickwork as he passed behind different houses. The gardener's hut was empty, as he had suspected, and he made his way out into the overgrown garden. 

The baron was not there. Montparnasse found the girl seated on the bench, running a delicate finger over an inscription on the wall. On hearing his approach she leapt nervously to her feet, trying to shield the lettering behind her back. "Who is there? Who is it?"

The young thief stepped into the light that still shone from the attic window, and on recognising him she seemed to relax. Montparnasse pointed to the wall. "What's that say?"

"I don't believe it concerns you, monsieur. May I ask why you keep turning up in my garden?"

"I was curious. What's that say?"

The girl crossed her arms. "It's right there on the wall, monsieur, and I'd appreciate you being a bit more polite. I say it is not your concern. Do tell me how you continue to access my garden and why."

"I came in through the hut around back. Wanted to get a look at the baron."

The girl furrowed her pretty brow. "You came to see what? Why? I haven't any baron."

Montparnasse waved a dismissive hand at her. "I see you haven't, and that's why I choose to take my leave. Good night," and he moved to pass her. She gasped and drew back against the wall, spreading a hand over her chest in obvious terror. "What?" Montparnasse demanded, annoyed that her confidence had taken leave of her so suddenly. He realised that she was staring, horrified, at his hand, which was covered in dried blood. "Ah, I see."

"There is nothing for you to steal here," she breathed, "and I have done nothing to you. If you take another steptwoard meI shall scream. My father is in his house and Toussaint is upstairs in the garret. The police will come and you shall be imprisoned."

Montparnasse groaned. "Why does every idiot woman in Paris want to scream for the police to-night?"

The girl made no answer.

"First, my dear, I feel you must know that your father is not in his house, for I have been there and it is empty. Second, I am not here for your good or your life, neither of which have any value for me. Third, this is my own blood, you see." He thrust his hand closer to her, and she drew away nervously. "So, I'll be leaving now," he said again. As he took hold of the loosened bar, however, an idea struck him. "Tell me, mademoiselle: the man that was just here, did he write that on the wall?"

The girl nodded. He could see that she relaxed at the subject of the baron, and he smiled as kindly as he could.

"Well, aren't you afraid your father will see it? Isn't it your names?"

"No," she answered thoughtlessly, "it's his address in the Rue de la Verrerie. And it makes no difference, Father never comes to the garden."

Montparnasse tipped his hat and said, "That is all I wished to know, mademoiselle. Good night."

He turned and left by way of the loosened bar.


	22. Sewer Filth

A/N- So, this _was_ my favourite chapter, but I think I've lost confidence in my writing, because I'm not so sure about it anymore. Well, we'll see. I think OOC-ness may rear its ugly head. I dunno, you tell me.

* * *

Montparnasse returned to the loft, but his sleep was interrupted by half-waking dreams and memories. The sun rose after a few hours that seemed much longer, and at last Montparnasse abandoned hope of rest and got to his feet. He did not know what he planned to do, but something made him think of bringing a disguise. He went to the corner and found a little case he had stashed there under the hay, and next to it whatever costume he had most recently rented from the Changer. This week's was that of a young workingman. He stuffed it into the case and set off.

The Rue de la Verrerie was deserted, but Montparnasse found a little nook under a crumbling staircase and waited there, sitting completely still and allowing his thoughts to wander.

They went along the same path as always: Éponine. What had he done to lose her? How could she possiblywant that baron? When had her affections shifted? Why did he allow her to treat him thus? He knew no answer for any of these questions, nor for the one that was constantly in his mind, even more than the others were—why did he care? When had that ugly beggar's opinions started mattering?

He sighed and shook his head. Always these questions, never any answers.

He continued to gaze at the old stone of the stairwell above him, allowing his eyes to slip out of focus. He saw Éponine and the baron wrapped in an embrace that left little to the imagination as Juliette approached from the shadows with a knife,wearing a cloak he had seen on Claquesous. A door slammed somewhere in the street, and Montparnasse realised he had been asleep. His eyes were closing again when he heard a voice asking, "Marius, why so pale? Your thoughts seem to be in another place today."

Recognising the name, Montparnasse sat up, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands. He blinked and few times and caught sight of the baron and another man on the end of the street. The baron was anxious, his fingers twitching at his side, and Montparnasse just heard his reply to his comrade: "I have an appointment to-night that holds my entire future in its outcome." The thief rolled his eyes, wondering if the baron had been challenged to a duel, and who had beat Montparnasse to it. He thought of following the men, but sleep called him again, dragging his eyelids down, and he allowed himself to return to it.

More jumbled dreams flitted through his mind, so confused that remembering them was not possible. A carriage woke Montparnasse, and this time he stood, prepared to return to his loft and find a more comfortable place to sleep. When the vehicle passed, it revealed that several people had come onto the street. One of them was Éponine.

Montparnasse watched her enter the rue, stop in front of a building, and stare up at the windows for a while. She then approached the door and raised her arm as if to knock, but dropped it, shook her head, and hurried away, her shoulders hunched. That uncontrollable feeling, coupled with his hot anger, returned to Montparnasse, and he took up his case of clothes and followed her. Éponine did not hear him, and he grew steadily nearer. The two went down several winding streets and reached the Seine. Éponine paused for a moment on the quay, watching the river, then ascended one of the ramps designed to allow horses to stop and drink. Montparnasse followed carefully as she hurried along the little beach and rounded a pile of debris. Thinking that she planned to throw herself into the water, for the bank tapered off and disappeared beyond the rubble, Montparnasse ran the remaining steps and slowly edged around the pile.

Éponine was standing before a sewer grate, fumbling around in a pocket of her shirt. After a moment she withdrew a heavy key and swiftly opened the lock, lay the key on the sand and leaned forward, peering cautiously into the sewer.

It was here that Montparnasse chose to make a move. The way she was bending forward caused her thin clothes to reveal her bony frame, and he could not hold in the bubbling fury and—dare he think it?—passion that overcame him. He dropped his case, rushed forward and seized her, covering her mouth with one hand and pinning her elbows to her sides with his other arm. The two tumbled into the sewer, Éponine struggling against him as he righted himself and dragged her to her feet; she could not break his grip. Her teeth ground into his palm, and he felt the pain stabbing all the way up his arm. He dug his fingers into her cheeks and arm in retaliation. Something warm and sticky rolled between her mouth and his hand. He clenched his jaw in pain. "Scream and I will kill you," he hissed at last.

When he had released her, however, she did not even try to leave. She simply turned to him, her eyes flashing furiously, and said, "Your sense of humour is tiring, Montparnasse."

He was inspecting his hand, the palm of which was covered in blood from a small circle of teeth marks. "I'm not laughing. Why did you do that—last night? Why did you stop us?"

"Because I told La Magnon it was a biscuit. You men think you know everything, but I know plenty, I do. I already looked at the place and I told her it was a biscuit. Why did you go after I told you there was nothing doing there?" Her anger seemed to be fading; Montparnasse began to clean the blood from his hand with his handkerchief.

"We went because I mentioned the place to Babet," he answered. The wound would not stop bleeding.

She squinted at him. "Why did you mention the place?"

He held his wounded hand up to the light, then decided to use the bloody handkerchief as a bandage.

"Montparnasse? Answer me. How did you know of the place?"

He tried to bind his own hand, but had to use his teeth to tie the knot. When the bandage was in place, he looked back up at Éponine, still saying nothing.

"You know about Monsieur Marius," she said softly. The coldness in her mien was replaced by fear, and she gazed at the Seine churning past the grate. He took a step toward her, and her attention snapped back onto him. "So you thought to kill him, did you?" Her lip curled as she studied his face. "How silly. I thought you were above such stupidity, 'Parnasse."

At the sound of the old nickname, some sort of emotional dam seemed to burst inside Montparnasse. He felt his boiling rage rush through his veins, more heatedly and violently than ever before, and his hands shook with the dizzying passion. "He doesn't love you, damn it! Can't you see it? My God, Éponine, how could you have done that to us? We care about you, and that bastard student wouldn't notice if you were dead at his feet! He doesn't give a damn about you!"

She pushed him away and turned to the grate, but he seized her wrist and pulled her into his arms, pressing her body against his.

"Montparnasse, get off!" she growled, trying to loosen his grip, but he silenced her by closing his lips over hers. Éponine freed her arms and dug her fingernails into his face; he caught up both her wrists in one hand and forced them back down.

She twisted free and dashed toward the grate again. Montparnasse caught her by the hair and threw her to the sewer floor, pinning her down with his body, kissing her again. She continued to fight back for a few minutes, but finally gave in to him.

Montparnasse let all of his anger, passion, and lust fly forth. His head whirled with the release of it all, and he closed his eyes. Éponine's gasps of pain and her fingernails digging into his bare shoulders kept him there, in the moment, aware of who was beneath him.

At last it was over and she lay silently on her back, her face white in the darkness. Montparnasse tossed her chemise, tornoff during the fray,onto her stomach, then pulled on his own shirt. Éponine slowly sat, holding the blouse over her chest. Montparnasse's knife had fallen from the pocket of his pants; she picked it up as he was buttoning them.

"What is it you want from me?" she asked, her hoarse voice taking him by surprise. Montparnasse looked up at her. "D'you want to see me bleed?" she demanded, seizing his hand roughly and pressing it against the inside of her thigh. "Well, good, there it is. Or is that not enough?" She held out the knife, and Montparnasse took hold of the handle. Éponine closed her other hand over his, and held out her arm, palm up. She pulled it closer, then lay the blade against her pale skin. "Tell me, monsieur, is this what you want?" She pressed down on the handle. Montparnasse tried to push against her, but still the knife broke through her flesh. Blood bubbled up on either side, black in the darkness of the sewer, and dripped down her arm. Montparnasse tore his eyes away from the bloody woundand looked at her face, which was contorted in agony. She forced the knife down, making a long, thin slice down the length of her arm and breaking off at her wrist. At last, she dropped Montparnasse's hand and he immediately released the knife, letting it clatter onto the floor of the sewer.

"Isn't this what you wanted?" she asked again, holding her bloody arm closer to him.

Montparnasse could think of nothing to do but make the blood stop. He snatched her ripped chemise out of her lap and fumbled with it, trying to bandage this wound as he had done his own hand. She gasped sharply—he had hurt her—and slapped his hand away. "I'll do it," she muttered. Montparnasse moved away, watching her in the darkness.

"I suppose," she continued,labouriouslybandaging her arm,"you'll want to know when I stopped thinking of you? Isn't that it? You left me, monsieur, because I wouldn't allow you to do _this_ to me. And my father... my father was angry with me. He said I'd done something to make you hate us, he did, and said I'd kept him from getting in the Patron-Minette. Yes, he hit me as well, every night after you stopped coming until he realised he could still use me. And he did use me, Montparnasse. I was fifteen when he first sold me out, to Monsieur Claquesous. I cried; I'd never done it before. He came back a few times, and I let him do what he wanted. Then Monsieur Gueulemer came, but I did not please him. He only came twice. Monsieur Babet was the only one who wouldn't come. Monsieur Claquesous said he thought it would make you angry if you knew, so they didn't tell you. It worked, didn't it? My father put himself in league with the Patron-Minette, even without you." She had managed to tie the blouse around her arm, and she looked down at her bare chest. "That's pretty, isn't it! You've left me with nothing on my back except sewer filth!"

At last Montparnasse found his voice. "Wait," he said, and he got to his feet and hurried out to the pile of debris, took up his case and, returning to the darkness, thrust it at Éponine. "Here, take it."

"Well, that's love, that is," Éponine smirked as she dressed herself in the Changer's costume. "Oh, make no mistake about it, Monsieur Montparnasse, you love me, though God only knows why. I recognise it, I know it, I feel the same for someone else. Though I don't think I would attempt to win Monsieur Marius's affection this way."

"Éponine—" he began.

"No, monsieur," she said gruffly, getting to her feet and buttoning the pants. "I thank you for the clothes, but you may take your love for me with you when you go to Hell, for I have no use for it here."

He leapt to his feet. "Get out!"

Éponine shrugged and obliged. "I did love you once, Monsieur Montparnasse," she said from outside the grate as she retrieved the key to the sewer. "And perhaps, a week ago, I might have returned to you. After this, though, I must say that I look at you and only see the differences between you and Monsieur Marius. You see, my Monsieur Marius is a gentleman, and you, monsieur, are nothing but a coward, a murderer, and a scoundrel. After today, 'Parnasse, I'm afraid I shall hate you until I die."

And she was gone.


	23. Revolution

Montparnasse did not leave the sewer for the rest of the day, nor the following night. In the morning he awoke to a growling stomach and the sounds of shouting in the distance. It was raining.

He got to his feet and pushed the grate open. Heavy and rusty as it was, the hinges made no sound under his touch. The others must have been planning to use this hideout later.

The shouts did not die down as Montparnasse hurried through the town, his head bent against the rain. Before he had reached the gang's grate, the distant cries were punctured by gunshots. Montparnasse rattled the bars until one of the thieves slipped the key through a gap in the bars. "What's in your head, boy?" Brujon hissed.

"There's nobody about today," replied Montparnasse, entering. "And—" he glanced at the four men. "Where's Claquesous?"

Babet inclined his head at the grate as Gueulemer stifled a yawn. "Where've you been all this time?" Thénardier asked.

"About. What does," he moved his head as Babet had done, "mean?"

"You've heard the fighting?"

Montparnasse rolled his eyes. "One would have to be deaf not to."

"Well," Babet continued, "the ventriloquist wanted to have a look. He disguised himself, made up a name, and next thing we know he's gone, off to the barricade."

"They built a barricade?"

"More'n one, the way I hear it," said Thénardier.

"Who are they, the ones fighting?"

Brujon smirked. "Those students of the University. You know the kind: empty heads, always wandering about with their noses in the air and nothing in their pockets."

"Or on their arms," Gueulemer added.

Montparnasse nodded, thinking of Éponine's baron.

"I had a neighbour like that at the Gorbeau place," Thénardier chuckled. "He paid our rent once. I sent my daughter to repay him."

"Which daughter?" asked Brujon. "If you mean the hussy from the Rue Plumet, it's a surprise he accepted her, the wench."

Thénardier shook his head. "If you must know, I don't think that he did. She was back quickly enough, as it was. Such an empty skull that boy Marius had!"

Montparnasse's head jerked up and he had exclaimed, "Marius!" before he could restrain himself.

"Yeah, that was his name," said Thénardier. "I always knew Éponine would be good for something in the end, though, even after—"

"Do you know the boy, Montparnasse?" Babet interrupted. He was watching the younger man in the careful way that Montparnasse had come to recognise and dislike. "The student from Gorbeau?"

"Of course not," Montparnasse muttered.

Babet nodded slowly, still scrutinising him. "He was a student, Thénardier? Do you suppose he'd be at the same barricade as Claquesous? The one outside the Corinth?"

"Oh, probably," said Thénardier, shrugging.

Brujon let out a sharp, high laugh. "If you have business with any of those boys, you'd better get it over with to-night. They'll all be dead by morning."

"I have to go," said Montparnasse.

"Montparnasse, lad, d'you know that your suit is covered in _merde_?" Babet asked.

"And blood," added Gueulemer.

For the first time, Montparnasse glanced down at himself. It was true; his suit was caked in dried muck and the cuffs were stained black. He nodded to the men and left for his loft.

* * *

Montparnasse made his way through the markets and onto the Rue des Prêcheurs, thinking to access theCorinthwineshopthrough the Rue Mondétour. On reaching the alley, however, he found that a small barricade blocked the far end. Still, he could stay here and watch the activity behind the larger barricade blocking the Rue de la Chanvrerie.

The students were moving in and out of the Corinth, which was clearly being used as a headquarters. An urchin boy was dashing about, waving his arms as though he were giving orders. Montparnasse recognised the boy's ragged clothes as the outfit he had bought at the Changer's shop for little Gavroche, and he recognised the boy immediately after. He had not seen Gavroche for a few days, and he wondered idly what had happened to the small boys who had been following him.

Gavroche began gesturing wildly to the pistol in his left hand. A student laughed at him, shaking his head. The boy shrugged his shoulders, and a tall, blond man said something that clearly infuriated the boy. Gavroche's retaliation made the blond man's face contort into a glare that, even at this distance, made Montparnasse step backward.

The gamin looked up and spotted Montparnasse. He took a few steps toward the smaller barricade and shouted, "Come with us, mate! Well now, this poor old country—aren't you going to do anything for her?"

Montparnasse, afraid of being recognised, fled. He made a circle around the barricade, through the Rue Saint-Denis, and re-entered the Rue Mondétour on its longer side. He sneaked through the winding alley and settled himself in a corner, out of sight but within earshot of the barricade. Drums rattled in the ominous silence, a sign that the government was preparing a counterattack. The barricade had almost fallen completely silent, and the sun was sliding past the buildings and toward the horizon.

A soft murmur began, and Montparnasse strained to hear what was being said. The words, although he could not make them out, had a pleasant lilt that made him think that he was listening to poetry. The distant drums and soothing voice had a remarkable effect on the anxious thief, and soon even the thoughts of Éponine and her baron were drained from his mind.

The light was gone from the sky, and Montparnasse could see a flickering glow cast from a small fire at the barricade. Just as his eyes were slipping out of focus and sleep was taking hold, Montparnasse heard a terrible clatter from outside the Corinth.

"Is anyone in?"

The voice was familiar. Montparnasse shuddered even now when the sounds were not suddenly coming from an empty place just by his ear.

The thuds were replaced by a repetitive crashing.

"Messieurs, what do you want?"

Montparnasse got to his feet and crept closer, peering around the corner. No one saw him; all eyes were fixed on a window on the third floor in which an old man could be seen.

"Open the door!" replied the familiar voice from the street. Montparnasse could not see Claquesous's true form in the darkness.

The old man shook his head. "I'm not allowed to, monsieur."

"Do it all the same."

"Out of the question."

Montparnasse saw a glimmer and realised that Claquesous was aiming a musket at the old man in the window. "Are you going to open, or aren't you?"

"No, monsieur."

"You refuse?"

Montparnasse closed his eyes. The old man's response was cut off by the shot. When the young thief looked again, he saw the old head slumped over the sill, a trail of black blood dripping down the wall. He felt dizzy and looked away.

"On your knees!"

The tall man Montparnasse had seen earlier, arguing with Gavroche, had seized Claquesous and forced him to the ground.

"Pull yourself together," the man said gravely. "Pray or ponder. You have one minute."

Montparnasse could see Claquesous trembling. "Mercy!" he gasped.

Something about the scene filled Montparnasse with a vicious elation. Claquesous, the only member of the Patron-Minette who had always thought himself above him, was grovelling at the feet of a student no better than Éponine's baron.

Éponine...

He remembered what she had told him about Claquesous and shivered with anticipation.

The solemn man dug his fingers into Claquesous' hair, pulling him so that he was sitting up straight. The ventriloquist screamed violently as the man pressed a pistol against his ear. Montparnasse watched, a smile twitching across his lips, as the shot was fired. He saw something bursting out of the other side of Claquesous' head and did not turn away, although it took every ounce of determination in his soul.

Montparnasse scowled at Claquesous' body, still shaking even after death, and forced himself to look at the blood creeping across the ground. His stomach turned and he felt ill. But blood had been a sight he had relished, adored even, since childhood! Its gleam in the light and the perfect crimson colour had always attracted him somehow, giving him that feeling of satisfaction and exhilaration that had also come from love and murder. The feeling was gone.

He turned and rushed away, tripping over the outstretched leg of a young man who had come into the Rue Mondétour and seated himself on the paving stone that Montparnasse had deserted several minutes ago. The thief picked himself up and continued hastily on his way without giving the dark-haired young student another glance.

In the Rue Saint-Denis he barely avoided trampling another figure, but this one stopped him.

"Why, if it isn't Montparnasse!" Gavroche cried cheerily.

"Yes it's me. What're you doing here?"

The boy smirked, waving a musket. "I'm with the fellows fighting, I am! Some operation they've got there; have you seen it? I'm on lookout!"

"Where'd you get that gun, boy?"

"I performed a service for my country," Gavroche said proudly, sticking out his thin chest and thrusting his nose into the air. "I caught a police spy! And you'll never guess which!"

Montparnasse shrugged. "I don't bother to acquaint myself with police spies. Which?"

"Inspector Javert! You know the one..."

"I've heard of him, yes. Listen, I really must go back to the others, Gavroche. I have news for them."

"Very well," said the boy. "But you should come and join us!"

Montparnasse shook his head. "I'll leave it to the idiot students to die for me. It makes no sense for me to die to liberate myself, now does it?"

He turned away, back to the sewers.


	24. Of Numbness and Pain

A/N- I'm not entirely sure how well my facts and timing worked out in this, and I really don't trust my characterisations in this chapter, but I've been proofing it for two weeks now and finally decided to go ahead and post it.

* * *

Another day passed, and the students' revolution did not succeed. Montparnasse waited until dusk before he returned to the Rue Mondétour. Smoke still lingered in the corners from the battle, and the smell of death and rotting bodies was everywhere. He skirted what was left of the smaller barricade and made his way toward the largest pile of bodies, trying to hold his breath.

Somehow, Montparnasse felt that seeing the baron's corpse would satisfy some of his troubles. If he knew that Éponine's student, the object of her affections, was dead, then he felt that he could possibly have a chance to win her back.

There had been a time, Montparnasse reminded himself, that Éponine had loved him.

The thief steeled himself and pulled a body from the pile. He let it fall to the street, then turned it over. It was not the baron.

The first time he had seen Éponine, Montparnasse thought, he had been disgusted. He had seen her as ugly—a wraith, caked in dirt, covered in rags, and missing teeth. Éponine's appearance had never changed, but he had grown accustomed to it.

Montparnasse kicked aside another body. His ears began to ring from holding his breath, and he held his handkerchief over his face as he finally surrendered and exhaled. Even through the perfume he smelled death and, more faintly, heat and blood.

The smells brought back memories of the sewers a few days before, as Éponine's bony, icy fingers had wrapped around his hand and were forcing the knife into her arm. The pale skin ripped, and dark blood flowed up from around the cut and dripped down her arm.

He closed his eyes in a vain attempt to chase the memory out of his mind, but the vision of Éponine's scarred arm would not be pushed away. Even upon opening his eyes, the arm was before him, the blood dried now but for a long red scar ending at the wrist.

Montparnasse rubbed at his eyes, hard, but still the arm dangled in front of him. It was too realistic to be a memory.

Slowly, he extended one hand toward the vision.

His fingers brushed the cold flesh.

It was real.

Montparnasse pulled back for a moment. The faint sounds of the city were replaced with a buzzing noise. He wrapped his hand around the thin wrist, wrenching it toward him. A bony shoulder, a brittle collarbone, matted dark hair—he slowly pulled Éponine's body out of the pile.

She was dead.

He could hardly believe that he did not dream. But here she was, and even in sleep Montparnasse did not expect that he could invent the bloodstain over her chest. His knife felt heavy in his pocket, and as he knelt by the pale corpse he took it out and laid it on the ground next to her. Numb, he traced the scar from the inside of her elbow, breaking off abruptly just before reaching the palm. His fingers, cold in the June heat, found a neat hole in the centre of her hand. Montparnasse lay his own hand, palm up, next to hers, and compared the teeth marks she had left to the bullet hole.

It was only then that he began to think, to consider what he was seeing. Why would Éponine have been at the barricade? It was ridiculous! To think that he would have come here to find the body of her baron, and would end by finding her own! He was sorting through corpses of stupid young men who had loved their country enough to die for it: why would Éponine have died among them? After all, the only thing she had loved more than herself had been her Monsieur Marius.

And that was where Montparnasse made the connection. Cold, biting truth began to take hold of him. Éponine would have come to the barricade for her baron, and she would have willingly died for him. He put his finger back on the hole in her hand. Montparnasse could imagine Éponine throwing herself in front of some soldier's weapon, the bullet lodging itself in her own heart and saving her student.

Little did she know, Montparnasse thought bitterly, that it was all a waste. The students were all dead now, as the barricade had been taken and all survivors had been killed immediately. She had thrown her life away to allow the baron's heart a final beat.

If he had not hurt her, thought Montparnasse, perhaps she would have never left his side. She could have stayed with him, her body pressed against his, safe and away from this end. He would never have allowed her to turn so cold.

But how could she have stayed with him after what he had done? Montparnasse squeezed his eyes shut and rested his warm forehead against his icy hands. It was his own fault. She should not have died in this way. It should have been the baron.

"Montparnasse?"

He slowly turned to see Babet.

"Listen, lad, I came to look for you and to get whatever was left of Claquesous. Meaning whatever was in his pockets, of course. The man had a fine blade."

Montparnasse did not answer.

"Also, we've moved to the grate on the bank of the Seine. I'm certain you know that one. Thénardier has the key, and we've oiled the hinges and everything. It's set to become a fine headquarters." When the young man still remained silent, Babet came closer and laid a hand in his shoulder. Montparnasse heard him swallow, as though he was preparing to say something, but after a brief pause the hand was gone.

Babet's footsteps moved a few paces away, and then he muttered, "Is that what Claquesous looked like, then? Ugly bloke." A muffled clinking sound as he searched the corpse's pockets, then: "Montparnasse," he called, "I'll expect you at the Seine."

And again the thief was alone with the dead.

A fly landed on Éponine's cheek, and he seized his knife and waved it away.

Her dried blood was still on the blade.

Montparnasse laid the knife on her arm, again absently tracing the scar with the flat of the blade. He scowled at the unbroken skin between the circle of teeth marks on his own hand. Éponine's wounds existed because of him. He deserved them, not she.

On a dazed impulse, Montparnasse thrust the knife into his own arm, dragging it down to create a long cut similar to Éponine's. He squirmed slightly at the pain stabbing through his entire arm, curling his toes inside his boots and clenching his fingers tighter around the dagger. He cut through his sleeves and watched with an outward calm as his own blood crept across the fabric, making the blacks darker and turning the whites crimson.

He turned on his own palm now, not the scarred one, but the other. The hand was already stained with the blood that was crawling down his arm, but he plunged the knife, point-first, through his hand and into the dirt below.

This time the pain was even more intense. His first reaction was to curl his fingers, but every movement against the cold metal tore more and increased the agony slicing up his entire arm and into his shoulder. Montparnasse bared his teeth and turned the knife as well as he could, widening the hole and making it more round to match the bullet hole. He felt his stomach turning, not with the fiendish delight he had once known, but with wrenching pain. He heard bones splintering and ground his teeth, determined to accept the agony without protest.

In a matter of moments, Montparnasse was completely unable to move a few of the fingers above the bleeding hole he had created. He was feeling light-headed, and the warm stench of his own blood was making his throat seem thick. Had he eaten anything over the last several days, he felt that he would have been sick.

At last he dropped the knife, staring at the mess he had created. Without moving his bloody arm, Montparnasse ripped a sleeve from a corpse he had overturned earlier, and made an effort to staunch some of the blood flow.

And suddenly a new idea came to him.

He lifted the knife again, his hand shaking in the confusion, and propped the bleeding point against his chest. Montparnasse took a deep breath, allowing his chest to rise toward the point, and closed his eyes as it began to prod at him through his clothes. He tightened his grip on the handle and prepared to thrust it forward.

"Well, well, well. What have we here?"

The voice was cold and unfamiliar. Montparnasse dropped the knife and slowly turned his head.

"Look at what I've found," the man said. The thief recognised him as an officer of the law that the others had once pointed out to him. "On your feet!"

Montparnasse obeyed, his bleeding arm hanging limply at his side.

"Well," the officer said, "it seems I have finally found the elusive devil's playmate. If I had not seen that face so many times before, I fear I would have had trouble recognising you," the man said gruffly. "My sources always told me that you were rather concerned about your appearance, but the fellow I've found is missing a hat and wearing what may be the filthiest suit I've ever seen. Come along anyway. I've a coach waiting in the markets."

Giving Éponine a final glance, Montparnasse allowed the officer to escort him to the carriage. He ushered the thief inside and climbed in after him, calling, "La Force!" to the driver.

"Montparnasse," the man muttered, nodding to himself in apparent approval. "Now if I could only catch that Claquesous, I'll have had the honour of bringing in all four of the Patron-Minette's head at some point or another. That ventriloquist, he can vanish at will, can he not?"

"Not anymore," Montparnasse answered dully. He was clutching at his injured hand, watching the blood rise between his clenched fingers.

"Ah," said the officer, "so he is dead. How?"

"Shot. The revolution."

The man was scrutinising him. "And yet his passing has not affected you as much as that girl's... I am certain I know her. I suppose she went to liberate you, then, along with those foolish schoolboys."

Montparnasse through of Monsieur Marius again, and he could not stop his lip curling in disgust.

"Jondrette's daughter!" the man said suddenly, clapping his hands once. "That was it! Jondrette who was Thénardier. Does anyone else know of her passing?"

"Her father should know," Montparnasse whispered. His voice seemed loud in his own ears, and the cab was getting uncomfortably warm. With every beat of his heart, he watched more blood ooze from his arm. "I should tell him. Where did Babet say there were now? At the Seine? Yes," he breathed, "the grate at the Seine."

He did not notice that the officer moved slightly when he said this. Montparnasse was quickly losing consciousness.

"I don't believe her father would care," he continued between his teeth. "He certainly doesn't know much about Gavroche's situation, poor boy."

"Gavroche?" the lawman interrupted. "I believe I have heard that name. Yes, the boy at the barricade—I remember. The one they laid next to the old man."

Montparnasse turned his attention to the other man for the first time. "You were there? At the barricades?"

"Of course. I was sent on behalf of the government."

The young thief frowned. His heartbeat was growing louder. He wanted to raise his voice over the noise, but he could not quite bring himself to do more than whisper. "His spy? Were you the spy?"

"Ah, so you were there also?"

"For a while. But Gavroche...?"

"Yes, that boy. An old man had died trying to raise their flag or something, and they had—"

"Gavroche," Montparnasse repeated.

The officer shrugged. "He's dead. I saw them carry his body into the Corinth."

Montparnasse leaned his head back and closed his eyes. "I have to get to the Seine," he whispered.

He had had dreams in which everything went wrong in a hectic whirl where nothing made sense and all that he had once counted on disappeared in a matter of moments. These dreams were taking life, Montparnasse thought blearily, and the constant drumming of his pulse in his head would grow too loud soon, waking him. He would awaken under the bridge, perhaps, or even in the Field of the Lark.

But the carriage was rolling to a stop now; the doors were opening and he was being dragged out by gendarmes who clearly had no sympathy for his wounded arm.

"Surprising," his companion said, "that you managed to keep your blood off of the upholstery." He ran a heavy-looking hand over the seat Montparnasse had just vacated. "I'd hate to imagine paying to replace all of this." Then he barked a few orders to the gendarmes and cried, "The Seine!" to the driver. "I've received word that several members of the Patron-Minette have set up headquarters there." He smiled at Montparnasse, if such a mien could ever really be called a smile, and the carriage jerked once and then rolled away.

One of the gendarmes said something about Montparnasse's arm.

"It's useless now," another replied. "Don't try to salvage it."

That was the last thing Montparnasse heard before he closed his eyes, letting the pounding in his head drown out all other noise.


	25. Scattered Images

A/N- Sorry about the horrible delay and this short chapter. Basically, I'm slowly recovering from the world's meanest case of writer's block and a bunch of AP exams along with the SAT... But I'm trying really hard to come back! I told myself every day that I love this story far too much to abandon it... So trust me, I will never rest till I'm able to finish it. It just hope there's someone left to read it...

* * *

When Montparnasse awoke, he did not open his eyes. A thought was nudging at him, and he could not quite grasp it.

The first thing he noticed was a musty smell. Sore, he stretched his arms above his head and heard a slight rattling sound. Montparnasse moved to press the palms of his hands against his eyelids, and that was when he realised that something was wrong. Had he misjudged the distance?

Slowly, Montparnasse began to move each of his fingers against his own head. He felt each finger of one hand drum against his hair, and he moved on to the other. He tapped the thumb of that hand. It never touched his head. Montparnasse tried harder, concentrating with all his strength on pressing the thumb against his face, but he did not feel it touching him. And now that his thoughts were on that hand, he noticed that while he felt the flesh of his palm on one eyelid, he felt a sort of rough cloth against the other. He slowly took both arms away from his face and opened his eyes.

His surroundings took a few moments to become clear. The first thing to come into focus was a dirty-looking ceiling. He blinked a few times and brought both arms in front of his face. What he saw made his stomach lurch as though he would be sick.

One of his arms ended in a coarse, bloodstained bandage. His hand was gone. Montparnasse prodded it the cloths, feeling for his hand, hoping that it was somehow wrapped inside. He could not tell whether the hand was completely gone, or whether the lumps in the cloth were somehow a part of it. Upon rolling up the sleeve he noticed a long, fresh wound running the length of his arm, and that was when he remembered the barricades. The flattened circle left by Éponine's teeth was still scarred onto his other palm.

Someone coughed, and Montparnasse looked around him at last.

He was in a prison cell.

The room was cold, though he knew that somewhere outside the June heat must have been blistering. The stones were spotted with drops of icy, murky sweat that managed to add a moulding smell to the heavy air.

Montparnasse was lying on his back, the top of his head pressed against the heavy door and his feet against the far wall. His fine clothes were gone, replaced with a red smock and cotton trousers. A green cap lay by a pair of wooden clogs in the corner.

He heard another cough and realised that a guard must be posted outside his door. Montparnasse made an attempt to prop the little cell whirled around him in a blur of greys and faded away.

* * *

When one is burdened with exhaustion, its heaviness pulling the eyes back and pressing against the lids, there is a time between sleep and waking that is nothing but a brief series of images as the mind struggles against the weary body. The eyes snap open only long enough to see a moment of surroundings before blurring again. The time between these moments is unknown to the sleeper, and it all smudges together as if it were a dream.

That was prison to Montparnasse.

When the others had finally managed to help him escape, he was quieter, rougher. The soft black waves of his hair were broken with tiny streaks of premature white. A long red scar stretched across his pale cheek from histemple to the corner of his mouth, and a vague limp affected his walk.

Babet would ask him what he had done in prison, and who he had met. The answers he received were unclear.

He remembered a large man called Mangedentelle—Dentelle—only slightly smaller than Gueulemer. Dentelle had slept on the cot next to him, or sometimes behind him.

Other prisoners had hated Montparnasse. They had had to do the work that he could not.

One of them had retained half of a broken shoe and sharpened it against the stone wall at night, making a sort of blade.

Montparnasse remembered lying awake in the dark, Dentelle's hot breath on his hair, listening to the soft scraping from across the room, knowing that the weapon was being made to use against him, Boiteaux, the Cripple, who could not finish his work.

Boiteaux, who made the women stare when the convicts were working.

Boiteaux, who had allowed Dentelle to befriend him.

It was hardly more than a week after Montparnasse escaped, a few days before Mardi Gras, when Dentelle was put to death. The others went to watch, but Montparnasse stayed behind in the sewer, avoiding the grate. The guards had thought that Montparnasse and Dentelle were friends. Brujonwas certainthat the execution was a trap.

When they returned, Thénardier was with them.


	26. Mardi Gras

Babet pressed a knife into Montparnasse's hand. The thief nodded and slipped it into his pocket, understanding that, even with his mask in place, the police may spot him. He had hardly been free for a fortnight.

The entire Patron-Minette was preparing for the Mardi Gras festivities, tossing stories back and forth and laughing raucously at the obvious stupidity of the upper classes. Even Montparnasse could not swallow back a grin when Gueulemer told of a well-dressed man who had taken one glance at him and thrown his purse into the air, making an escape so hastily that he had passed several carriages on foot. Gueulemer, it seemed, had only been returning the man an embroidered handkerchief that had fallen from his pocket. "They won't let us do them good!" he concluded, shouting over the voices of all the others. "It only seemed fitting I kept it all!"

Montparnasse was squeezing past Thénardier, to whom he had not yet spoken, in an attempt to reach his battered old hat. The other man's suit crinkled at the contact, and Montparnasse could not stop himself raising an eyebrow.

Grinning, the old innkeeper reached into the pocket of his jacket and drew forth a handful of newspaper cuttings. "The only safe place where I trust they won't come to harm," he explained, patting his pocket. "These are important. You never know when you'll need backup, eh? And look at this!" He waved one of the fresher ones under Montparnasse's nose. "This article was a relief to all of us, huh?"

"Why don't you put the damn newspaper away?" Brujon cut in. "We've all seen those stupid things hundreds of times. Yes, Inspector Javert is gone, but they replaced him soon enough, didn't they?"

"Javert?" Montparnasse repeated.

"I saw him on that very day, didn't I?" proclaimed a gleeful Thénardier. "He was following me into the sewers, and I saw that rascal from Montfermeil with a corpse! And I said—"

"'I have the key! I'll trade you for it!'" Babet interrupted. He continued Thénardier's story, accompanied by an exaggerated pantomime that he had obviously seen enacted many times. "And then, when the man wasn't looking, you _ripped_ a piece of cloth from the suit to use as evidence—which you still carry with you. And then you opened the grate and _let the man pass_!"

"But that's not all!" Thénardier cried indignantly. "I haven't told you the rest of the story!"

"The part where you watched Javert confront the man, and the two of them left carrying the muddy corpse?"

"Well—"

Montparnasse cut him off. "Where did you see the inspector?"

"At the Seine," Thénardier said. "I can't imagine how he found our new place before we'd properly moved in, but I always figure he got some tip-off. Lucky for us the girl had oiled the hinges and passed me the key."

Montparnasse closed his eyes, suddenly realising how Javert had found them.

"I've got a place on a cart in the parade!" Thénardier announced, and he let himself out through the grate.

Babet smirked and rolled his eyes after him. "Oh, and I've something else for you, lad!" he said, reaching into his valise. He extracted a handsome black glove nearly as long as the dainty things he had seen rich women wearing as they climbed into their fine carriages. A silver buckle at the cuff would secure it halfway to the elbow. "I've stuffed it with old newspapers—none of the innkeeper's precious documents, of course."

Understanding the glove's purpose, Montparnasse clumsily fastened it over his crippled arm. The newspaper filled out the otherwise empty palm and fingers, creating an illusion of the hand that Montparnasse had lost. Unsure of the words, Montparnasse simply nodded his gratitude.

Babet understood.

* * *

"That's a wedding there," Brujon said suddenly. "What a day to be married!" 

Montparnasse squinted at the carriages that crept toward him on their side of the parade. There was the small wedding procession, caught in the midst of the drunkards and the tramps that were cavorting about on and off of the other vehicles. Mildly curious as to what kind of person would be married on Mardi Gras, Montparnasse pushed closer to the front of the crowd.

He smiled tightly at several masked men who staggered past, costumed women leading them by the hand. Babet joined him a moment later.

As the wedding carriages rolled past, Montparnasse rocked forward onto his toes, stretching his neck to see inside. The first carriage passed him, and he adjusted his position so that he would certainly see the passengers in the next.

He needn't have bothered. The young groom in the second carriage was leaning forward, his cheeks red with a mixture of excitement and humility. Montparnasse's stomach twisted into a burning knot. He had not forgotten the curling dark hair and the handsome face of this lovesick young baron—the baron he had believed dead since the June revolution.

Pushing Babet away, he began to follow the carriage, slipping back into the crowd so that none inside would notice him.

Montparnasse had, of course, gone to the Rue Plumet since his escape, but the girl in the garden was gone and the house was empty. Assuming that the baron had died along with his friends, Montparnasse had maintained a level of peace with the knowledge that neither of them would be happy. Yet here he was, alive and, as of today, married--perhaps to the girl that Montparnasse had known.

To continue in this strain, several other problems must be immediately addressed. What, the reader is certainly wondering, of Éponine? Had he simply forgotten her?

Of course Montparnasse had not entirely forgotten her, and nothing about it could have been called simple. He had first allowed her name to fall into disuse in his consciousness, thinking of her as nothing more than the Thénardier girl. He allowed the details of her appearance to blur in his memory, and after a month or so of prison he was merely suppressing the awareness that there had been a girl who had mattered. The little things that reminded him of her slowly lost their meaning, and he continued on as a ship whose captain ignores the hole in its underbelly and tries to forget that it is sinking. He never looked at his scarred palm.

The unexpected appearance of the baron in his life had jerked at these abandoned memories forward, though he could still attempt to hold them back. The dull burn in his stomach and the subtle aching feeling had suddenly returned, bringing with them the Thénardier girl. He would not allow his mind to form her name. Montparnasse's sudden fascination with the baron was born more of surprise than his carefully ignored past.

The wedding procession separated from the parade at last and turned onto the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire. He tried to move through the throng of masked Parisians, but a small fight to his left had erupted into a brawl, and Montparnasse could see several of the police pushing their way toward the fray. He ducked through the crowd and hurried into an alley, eventually making his way back to the deserted grate, where he waited until the others staggered in.


	27. The Thenardier Girl

Montparnasse, predictably, took to loitering casually in the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire, keeping a sharp eye on all activity in and out of the houses. On the third day he saw the old white-haired man whose hidden passage he had once used entering the servant's quarters of number six, and he spent the next week sitting directly across the road, his back against a stone wall, monitoring anyone he saw at the house. The white-haired speechmaker returned every morning; Montparnasse took to sleeping through the dawn and keeping watch in the evenings.

What did he hope to see? What did he plan to do? Montparnasse hardly bothered to analyse the futility of his actions. He wanted to know what the baron was doing now, and he was afraid that something, the ineffable something for which he had been waiting, would happen unnoticed if he was away for too long. The others had counted him in on a robbery that had been set up for tonight, but as they passed the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire Montparnasse had made an attempt to slip away.

"Where are you off to, then?" Brujon had demanded roughly, taking hold of his shoulder.

Montparnasse said nothing.

"We'll need you tonight, lad," said Babet. "Whatever you want, can't it wait?"

"The two of you value this boy far more than you should," Brujon muttered.

Babet turned on him. "What do you mean by that?"

"He's not much good, is he? Every time we count him in on a job, he's sneaking off. We get to the place, then we're one short. He shows up in the middle of the night and no one even asks where he's been that's so important he'd leave his _comrades_ in a lurch!"

"The boy brought us together five years ago, which means he's been with us four years longer than you. The innkeeper can pull his weight. You're making too much of a fuss." Brujon still did not release Montparnasse. "Well, let him go!" Babet insisted.

Brujon acquiesced, pushing Montparnasse to the ground. The young man got to his feet and hurried away, their shouting dwindling to echoes, then silence.

No one had stirred on the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire in all the hours he had been there. Until now.

A shadow drifted onto the street, a ragged girl only just more solid than a dream, and began peeping into the windows on the ground floor of number six. Unsure what to think, Montparnasse stood and made his way toward her, his ears ringing and his stomach churning. Folding his gloved arm against his chest, he reached out toward her, his pale hand shaking in the weak moonlight, and clasped her shoulder. She whirled around, and Montparnasse was certain that his heart stopped for a breath before he realised his mistake.

The girl before him looked as though she had stepped from one of his haunted memories, badly disguised herself, and come for him. Her nose was the wrong shape, her lips were too full, and her hair too light. The tangles, the rags, the anguished eyes and hollowed cheeks—those had not changed at all.

"What are you?" he whispered.

She pressed a chapped finger to her lips and led him to the other side of the street, away from the house, where he repeated the question.

"Of course you wouldn't remember me," she said. "I don't know if you ever even saw me."

Her voice had changed as well. The rasp was gone, and it was clear and low as it had been in the Field—

He could not think of it.

"Who are you?"

"Azelma," she answered, "Azelma Thénardier, of course. Papa sent me here to find the rich man, Baron Pontmercy. I found the address, you see, and I recognise the baron."

She spoke argot, and at last Montparnasse understood. The rushing sounds in his head began to fade away, and he could think clearly again.

The day he had first met Thénardier, or Jondrette, two girls had interrupted the tour of the bridge. The smaller of these had buried her face in her mother's skirts, then gazed worshipfully at Montparnasse. This was that girl. And the elder—

"You never really saw me, what with going walking with my sister. I saw you, though."

Montparnasse closed his eyes, willing the girl to be silent.

"She used to tell me what the two of you did—"

Stop.

"—and I was certain she was falling in love with you. She told me about the day in the Field of the Lark—"

Stop!

"—and it was I who tried to comfort her for the first few weeks after you stopped coming. This shoulder here is the one she laid her head on when she cried." The girl's red fingers brushed her own shoulder, and a melancholy smile drifted over her face. "After that she stopped speaking of you as much, and when Papa sent her next door to Monsieur Marius—"

"Stop!" Montparnasse cried aloud. "Just stop it! be quiet! stop talking!"

"Monsieur?"

Montparnasse clenched his teeth, blinked several times, and began tugging irritably at the hem of his jacket. "Monsieur Marius?" he repeated, finally hearing her words.

"Yes, the young student next door. Papa called him a fool, empty-headed, you know. But my sister called him a . . . a _very pretty boy_, that's what she said." The girl wiped her rough palms on her tattered skirt. She looked up at him and smiled, and in that moment she looked so like her sister that Montparnasse started. She seemed concerned at his discomfort; the vision passed and Montparnasse turned away.

"A very pretty boy," he repeated softly. He had heard the phrase before. The words brought with them a surge of that feeling he remembered, a sort of satisfying euphoria, that faded all too quickly, replaced by a renewed despair. Something was gone, taking with it his joie-de-vivre.

The girl's eyes widened. "It's true, she called you that also! I'd forgotten . . . well. She was right, monsieur."

"Montparnasse," he said habitually.

"Montparnasse, then." She accompanied these words with another of those smiles, and Montparnasse turned his back on the spectre, resting his forehead against the cool stone façade of the house behind him.

The girl said nothing for a moment, perhaps leaving him alone with his thoughts. "You used to dress so nicely, Montparnasse," she murmured at length.

"Mademoiselle—" he began, still facing the wall.

"Azelma. If I may call you Montparnasse, so you must call me Azelma."

Having forgotten what he wanted to say, Montparnasse turned to bid her farewell and take his leave.

"Montparnasse," she said again. "What was it Éponine used to call you? Oh, it was 'Parnasse, wasn't it? 'Parnasse . . ." she smiled for the third time.

The names he had spent so long in forgetting, strung unmercifully into one sentence and coupled with that maddening smile, combined to form an eruption of emotion, held back for a year, that finally found release as Montparnasse slapped Azelma across the face and left her there on the ground.


	28. Montparnasse Drunk

I worked really hard on "De Pluie"...

* * *

"No, no, lad, I insist," Babet said grandly. His words were beginning to slur together. "I insist that you have the last drop."

"But you paid for it," Montparnasse repeated, pushing the bottle back across the table.

"I did, didn't I?" Babet laughed, shaking the bottle and causing the last few drops of wine to slosh invitingly against the glass. He held it out to Montparnasse. "I can't hold any more. A big fellow like Gueulemer could have finished this off in one gulp. Me and you, we're not so fortunate. I swear, one glass of wine is always enough for me. And you, having just been introduced to the bottle, have yet to learn to handle it as an adult. Though I must say, lad, you hold wine pretty well for a _galifard_."

"I'm less an apprentice than you, Babet," Montparnasse smirked, and without presenting another empty argument, he drained the bottle. He and Babet had been working on finishing this wine for most of the night, passing it back and forth and watching with increasing interest as the candlelight began to blur and dance.

He did not know if they were celebrating or trying to console one another after the loss of Brujon. Montparnasse certainly did not mind seeing him go, and he knew that Babet had never had any real affection for the man—he had shown that earlier tonight. Gueulemer had set out to find Thénardier.

Apparently, Montparnasse's vigils at the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire had infuriated Brujon. He had been insulting the younger man more and more frequently, and finally the others had had enough. Babet, Montparnasse was told, had simply attacked Brujon, and Gueulemer had been slow to step in and pull them apart, ultimately giving Brujon several bruises in the process. And now, the traditional "head" of the Patron-Minette had fallen back to three, but Thénardier had been immediately elected to fill Brujon's place.

Now that their wine had been finished, the bartender began to send Babet and Montparnasse unfriendly looks. It was true that the two of them had been growing steadily louder in proportion to the steady emptying of the bottle, so the men got to their feet and, leaning shakily on one another, made their way out of the pub.

"That," Babet proclaimed to the empty street, "was good wine!"

"And a good year," Montparnasse added.

"A splendid year! A year worthy of—what year was it?"

Neither knew.

They parted company then, Babet staggering back to the grate.

Montparnasse simply began to walk.

He liked the feeling of freedom, of cool night air on his flushed cheeks. It was easy to entertain himself like this—it took all of his concentration to keep his feet on the sidewalk and remain standing upright. He followed half-familiar streets, ignoring the blurry painted faces that began to accost him, and slowly he became aware of a shadow that had been trailing him since he had left the pub.

When he arrived, he stopped and allowed her to catch up with him. He seized her arm and ran with her across the field, losing his balance and falling into the stream. He rolled on top of her and kissed her. This time, she did not pull away. The water, its level surprisingly low for this time of the year, trickled under her back, catching her hair up in its current and washing his hat away.

She called him Parnasse, and she accepted him willingly. She responded to him passionately. She did not lie still and wait for him to finish.

The differences were blurred with his vision.

At last he had changed the ending.

X

When morning came, Montparnasse awoke to find several ragged children crouched over him. He righted himself and began to search for his hat.

His clothes were drenched, and he was shivering. Lips blue and head bare, he hurried out of the Field of the Lark, the cool morning breezes whipping unmercifully at his dripping finery.

He was ill for a few days after that, but amidst this physical misery he felt something different. Awakening in the evening was no longer a burden. The Thénardier girl's long stares and subtle glances were not unbearable. He had taken control of his emotions, and he had changed the past. A piece of his soul had been restored.

Montparnasse deluded himself.


	29. An End

A/N- For some reason, I've found a site where someone posted one of my crappy old stories as though it was her own, and now a new user on this site has a name that is remarkably similar to mine. I don't necessarily believe that these two events are linked, but I do feel a certain breach of my own "identity." Because my trust in the security of my work is being shaken, I can more or less say that Charmer will be the last full-length fic I post online. I'll probably toss up the occasional ficlet, but it's odd to put so much work into something and then see it credited under someone else's name. That said...

0000000000

Montparnasse wanted to go back to sleep. His eyes felt strange in his head, which was far too heavy to lift. Accustomed though he was to feeling this way in the morning, it seemed more difficult each time. He curled his fingers around the bottle at his side, the slight rustling in the straw nearly deafening him. Gathering all of his strength, Montparnasse lifted the bottle a few inches from the floor of the loft and shook it.

Nothing.

He started to roll his eyes, but thought better of it. The blood pulsed through his temples like rivulets of hot iron. Perhaps the friendly slosh of a mouthful of wine against the cool glass could have alleviated the pain, bringing back the confidence he had had the night before, but Nothing! Nothing could only make the throb louder. He slowly, gingerly moved the bottle to his forehead and pressed the glass against his fiery flesh.

The whisper of bare feet on the dirt floor below filled Montparnasse's pounding ears. He willed the intruder to leave him in peace, but tightened his grip on this empty bottle all the same. He would not allow this unsuspecting visitor to cause him trouble in his loft, his favourite home in the years since he had been dislodged from his apartment.

The footsteps, which Montparnasse decided to characterise as 'timid,' began to ascend the ladder to the loft where he now rested, completely unconcealed in the hay. Montparnasse could imagine himself lying there: a worn young man in a greying suit, hair streaked silver, face scarred, an empty wine bottle in his only hand. He monitored his breathing, making absolutely certain that he seemed asleep, while every nerve was strained against the pain in his skull.

As the intruder approached him, Montparnasse heard the steps slow, as though the child—it must be a child—did not want to wake him. A pause, and he could almost feel the stranger at his side, slowly dropping to a crouch.

A small hand planted itself in the middle of his chest, and before Montparnasse could will himself to bring the bottle crashing over the intruder's head, lips were pressed against his.

Oh God.

"Get off, Azelma," he hissed, his voice still gravelled by sleep. He elbowed at her with his gloved arm, but she dodged and threw a leg over his torso, sitting on his stomach.

"You call that a hello?" she asked. He still hadn't opened his eyes, but the pout in her voice was obvious. "I climbed up that splintery ladder in my bare feet to bid you good morning."

Montparnasse tried several more times to push her off, and finally turned over on his side; she jumped out of the way before he trapped her leg beneath him. "I don't feel well. Get away," he muttered.

"You never feel well in the morning, Montparnasse," she said reprovingly. "And I'm certain you understand why."

"Because you're here."

Azelma paused a moment before responding. "You should not say such things. I do what I can to keep you happy."

"And I don't want _you_ to keep me happy, of all people."

"Careful, Montparnasse. I know how to ruin your good spirits for weeks."

"Do you, now?" he asked, a sneer creeping into his voice. He had no patience for being awakened in the morning, particularly when the girl who woke him was clearly attempting to seduce him. Azelma was not Montparnasse's mistress—he could not remember ever sleeping with her. Yet she had taken to gazing at him in public, sneaking up on him and surprising him with a kiss, but somehow disappearing whenever another of the Patron-Minette was around. He found her cheeriness disgusting. "Well, why don't you give it a try? Tear me down, Azelma. Destroy me."

"I won't," Azelma said softly.

"Because you can't. Now, goodbye! Thank you for you unwelcome visit; don't bother coming back, you silly little slut. You aren't invited."

Azelma said nothing, but Montparnasse did not hear her leave. He forced his eyes open and pulled himself into a sitting position. She was perched atop a bale of hay, watching him with tears in her eyes.

"The devil!" Montparnasse hissed. "What do you want?"

"This is frustrating, Montparnasse," she answered levelly. "If I come across you at night, when you've been drinking, you always seem so glad to see me."

"I don't remember talking to you at night," he said tersely.

Azelma nodded slowly, understanding glimmering in her watery eyes. "I suppose that means you don't remember last night, or the night before, or the last few weeks? Ever since the night in the Field of the Lark, more or less—"

"What are you saying?"

"How stupid of me. You don't remember anything. It never _meant_ anything to you. Of course I should know that. You only wanted—" she forced her mouth closed, shaking her head. "I always knew it," she whispered at length.

"Good," grunted Montparnasse, flopping onto his back again and draping his arm over his burning forehead. "Then you'll let me sleep."

A few moments passed. Montparnasse tried to clear his mind, but he was still aware of Azelma's presence. Her light breathing was deafening.

"You call me by her name."

He had not realised how near sleep he had been until her solid voice snapped him into reality. "What now?"

"You want me to destroy you, and I can. You call me by her name." Azelma's voice had become steely and unfeeling.

"Go away," he groaned, but could not crush the rising note of panic in his throat.

"Éponine," she whispered. "My sister. I am only Azelma. I don't have my sister's charm, do I? How she once loved you!"

Montparnasse leapt to his feet, his head pounding in pain and fury, and dove for Azelma, but she moved away and he came up with only a handful of straw.

"She called you 'Parnasse and she wanted to be your wife!"

He scrambled to his feet and hurled himself at her again, but again Azelma dodged and again Montparnasse fell harmlessly into the hay.

"I saw her that day, dressed in the boy's clothing you gave her. Her arm was wrapped in a bloody rag and she was limping. I asked what had happened, and she answered with your name. That was the day she died. She died hating you, 'Parnasse!"

At last Montparnasse's hand closed on Azelma's ankle; she collapsed and he threw himself atop her before she could wriggle away, pinning her down with his body.

"Here I am again," she said, smirking up at him, but Montparnasse could see the pain in her eyes.

"When you're drunk, anyone is beautiful," replied Montparnasse. "It's only in the morning when you see what they really are."

"This from a man who has spent years pining over my sister," she sneered. "Yes, you certainly know beauty when you see it, don't you?"

He struck her across the face, planting an elbow into her collarbone to hold her down. Azelma grimaced, then laughed and spat at him.

He hit her until she was silent.

0000000000

Montparnasse ran. It was nearly noon. His hand and arms were spattered with the Thénardier girl's blood. The streets were choked with Parisians; he dashed around couples and families, darted in front of ambling carriages, desperate to forget what she had said.

He had sat in the loft for only a few moments after Azelma had stopped laughing. He had pushed himself to his feet and looked down at the mess he had created. She was bleeding from her nose and mouth; an eye had begun to swell; purple marks covered her flesh. She had gasped, her mouth opening wide; she spluttered, coughing up blood, rolling over, spitting it out into the hay. It was then that he hurried away from the loft.

People in the street looked at him strangely when he brushed past them, hatless, premature grey in his unkempt hair, the rough edges of a convict on the soft features of a gentleman. Montparnasse was only a few more than twenty years old, with haunted dark eyes. He was still handsome, but in that miserable way that inspired penniless thinkers. He was thin and pale, his cheeks hollow and his eyes shadowed.

The road ended at the edge of the Seine, and Montparnasse skidded to a halt. His heart was pounding in his head and his fiery lungs could not take in enough air to return his breathing to normal. The sudden drop on the other side of the short wall had startled him, and he bent over to catch his breath and ease his fear. He had almost fallen to his death.

The thought of death surprised him. If he had fallen, this life would have ended. He would never have to see Azelma's battered face again, never have to hear her tormenting him about his dream-like past. His arms would never be covered in blood again. He would not have to wake up in the morning with a crushing headache.

He would be wiped out of existence.

That notion was beyond Montparnasse. To be gone forever, not even a conscience left—it seemed impossible.

And wonderful.

He leaned over and glanced at the ground far below him.

No more headaches.

No more Azelma.

No more Éponine.

Montparnasse stepped up onto the little wall and turned around, his back to the river and the drop. He moved slowly backward until the heels of his boots hung over the edge, then drew a deep, shaky breath.

Taking a final look at Paris, Montparnasse leaned backward and let himself fall.


	30. Darkness

A/N- This chapter was supposed to be longer, but there is so much content in the first part that I decided to cut it off there and let it sink in. Also, hang with me for a little while. Two chapters from now is my absolute favourite part of the entire story. And Montparnasse will stop pouting next chapter. I swear he will.

* * *

Montparnasse was in the sewers. Or perhaps it was not the sewers. The walls were smoother than he remembered.

Ahead he saw the light of a grate. He took a step forward, but the light did not seem any closer.

Another step, and still he was in the same place.

Now Montparnasse began to run, but the faster he moved his legs, the further away the light seemed to be.

He was moving backwards. It was going away.

And then a longing crept over his heart, more intense and wrenching than any pain he had ever experienced. He wanted, needed, more than anything—_anything_—to be standing in that warm light, but he never could. He was in trapped in the shadows.

"'_Parnasse?"_

What a voice! He was in the Field of the Lark again, and he ran toward the river, certain she would be there, but the mud was deep and he could hardly lift his feet. He leapt over a paving stone and saw her. He gripped her shoulders and looked at her face, but the features were blurred. He pulled her closer, and she was gone.

"_Montparnasse?"_

The buildings of Paris were taller than he remembered. A hand seized his shoulder. It was Azelma—or was it Juliette? The street tipped sideways and he fell, landing under his old bridge.

He heard Babet's nasal voice among several others, muttering, but he could not make out the words. Then she called to him again.

"_Montparnasse?"_

He tried to answer, but he could not open his mouth. Dupont's mischievous eyes glimmered in the darkness.

Montparnasse slowly became aware of a dull pain in the back of his head. He was lying on something hard. A rock jabbed into his back.

"Montparnasse?"

He felt someone near him take his hand. He was terribly sore; his shoulders were throbbing and his lids were too heavy against his eyes. The thin, icy fingers pressed against his palm did something to revive him.

Another cold hand caressed his burning cheek, and he slowly forced his eyes open. It was darker than he had ever seen anything, and he strained to catch even the vaguest glimmer of light.

Nothing.

"Éponine?" he whispered. His voice was harsh and hoarse.

"No, it's only me, Azelma," answered the voice from the darkness.

He groaned. "Then—I'm alive?"

"Yes. Oh, Montparnasse, I'm so sorry! I shouldn't have— I didn't know you were really so... Oh, it's all my fault!" He heard tears in her voice. "When Papa told me Monsieur Gueulemer found you out cold near the river I knew it was because of what I'd said. I'm not religious, Montparnasse, but oh, how I've prayed you would come to! If you'd died... I don't know what I would have done. You've been lying here for ages."

"Gueulemer...?"

"He was trying to catch up with you when you fell. He said you were tearing down the street in broad daylight, drawing attention to yourself, and he wanted to stop you and help you hide if you were being chased. But then he came to the river and didn't see you in either direction, so he looked over the side and—" her voice cracked into a ragged sob— "you were stretched out on the sand on your back."

He felt her face against his chest, warm tears leaking through his shirt. He said nothing, waiting for realisation to take hold. He had failed.

She moved away. "He carried you here, and we've been taking turns watching over you until you came to."

Montparnasse swore softly.

"Why don't you look at me?" asked Azelma. The whine in her voice made Montparnasse long for death more than ever before.

"What do you mean?" he answered testily. "It's far too dark to see you, idiot."

Azelma did not answer.

"Where are we? The sewers, I suppose," Montparnasse continued. "Well, did no one think to bring a light? Why is it so dark here?"

"Montparnasse," Azelma said patiently, "it is noon, and we are by the grate."

Then Montparnasse could hear the creak of cart wheels overhead, the merry voices of upstanding Parisians drifting down to the hidden band of thieves, those midday sounds that had always seemed so displaced in the musty, fetid tunnels of the sewers. He strained his eyes against the blackness, but could not make out even the vaguest glimmer of light. "Where are we, really?" he demanded. Something was wrong.

"I don't lie, Montparnasse. I swear we are next to the grate. Here," she lifted his hand and closed it around a bar. "You can't see anything? I can see you, though. Can't you see me?"

"No," he whispered.

They were both silent.

"Wait," said Azelma at length. He heard her move away. Someone grunted and muttered, "What now?"

"It's Montparnasse. He's awake."

"Well, don't wake me, good-for-nothing. Get Babet, he's the one who cares."

"I'm awake now, and Gueulemer too. What is it?"

"Montparnasse—"

"He's awake? He's well?"

"I don't think—"

Someone had seized Montparnasse's shoulders and Babet's voice exclaimed, "You're awake! You've no idea how worried we were, lad!" and the thief embraced him. "How do you feel, then?"

Montparnasse swallowed and said, "I don't think I'm well."

He felt Babet move away and ask, "What are you looking at?"

Turning his head in the direction of the voice, Montparnasse replied levelly, "I don't know, Babet. I can't... _see_... anything."

A moment of silence was at last broken by Gueulemer's deep chuckle. "Joking aside, boy, how do you feel?"

"He... you are joking, aren't you, Montparnasse? Come on, lad, it isn't funny. If you... you—" he broke off. "You really can't see me."

"It's true," said Azelma from somewhere else.

"Well," Thénardier growled, "what good is a blind thief?"

"What good is a disloyal comrade?" Babet shot back. "Remember when you were trying to escape La Force in 1832? Hm? Do you know why we were still trying to find you after walking about all night in the rain, in danger of being caught again?"

"The boy," Gueulemer muttered.

"He's right. Montparnasse insisted we wait to find you. We were all against him, but he wouldn't let us leave. If we hadn't stayed on, where would you be now?"

Thénardier said something indiscernible and Montparnasse felt a slight breeze created as he passed, then the creak of the gate on its hinges.

"And good riddance," Babet sighed. "What's wrong, Gueulemer?"

"That's the second able-bodied accomplice you've frightened away on his behalf."

Montparnasse carefully got to his feet. The pain in his head intensified until he was certain he would collapse, but he steadied himself by leaning against the cool, damp wall at his side. "You shouldn't have done that," he said softly. "The innkeeper was right. What good is a blind thief? And Brujon was right too. The way I've been, I haven't been myself since—"

"Face it, lad, this is yourself now. Two years you've been this way, and we've grown accustomed to it. I know... I understand what happened."

Remembering Babet's family life, Montparnasse whispered, "Don't you miss her?"

"Who?"

"Your wife. Your children. You don't care at all that they're gone?"

"Oh, Montparnasse, we were never... I didn't really care for her. I thought of marriage as a permanent, legal mistress, but there was too much to think of, too much responsibility. But you—you believe in love, don't you? I don't know if you would understand."

Montparnasse put his hand out, inching along the wall, until he found the rough bars of the rusting grate. He pushed it outward, hearing the same creak he had heard as Thénardier had left.

"Where are you going?"

"To finish the job I started."

"'Parnasse!"

It was her voice again, _her_ voice, soft and clear as it had once been, with the bitter edge of a young girl who has already seen and been the worst of the world. He held his breath, wishing that it could somehow be true, that these past several years had been a nightmare, that he would open his eyes and see—

Nothing. Everything was still black.

"I'm sorry, Montparnasse," the voice said. "But... don't."

"Why not?" he snapped, his anger and volume rising. "What is left for me? Why shouldn't I let you all get on with your lives? You shouldn't have to watch over me all the time! Go cut a throat, buy a whore; forget I was ever with you! I died years ago. I dreamt of freedom, and my first playmate took it away! I dreamt of love, but she ripped my hopes and took my money! I wanted to be feared, to be known, but I achieved that and found I could be nothing else! I wanted looks, I had looks, but now what am I? I'm not whole. I can't even glare at my own reflection anymore! My clothes are covered with shit, and how am I to know whether my damned trousers even match my coat? It's over! The story is over!"

"Come now, lad," Babet said nervously from the impenetrable darkness, "lower your voice. It's daylight outside that grate."

"I wouldn't know!" shouted Montparnasse. "I'll never know again! What time is it? Where am I? If I had reason to live I'm certain I could get on by feeling around with my one hand, but what else have I got? I lived for lust, greed, crime, and—"

"And _her_," Azelma added in a whisper.

He heard the slight crunch of footsteps on the narrow beach outside the grate. It seemed that Thénardier was returning after all.

"To hell with it," Montparnasse continued, "to hell with everything! What good am I? Have I bothered to help anyone in the last two years?"

"You've certainly helped me," declared the voice of a stranger from outside the grate.

One of the thieves swore and Azelma hissed, "Cop!" The grate was pulled open and Montparnasse released it, then staggered a few steps into the darkness, his arms outstretched, expecting to collide with a wall at any moment.

A strong hand seized his upper arm, the hand of the officer who had found the thieves by following the sound of Montparnasse's impassioned shouting, and the blackness of his world engulfed him again as his consciousness slipped away.


	31. Truth

Regaining consciousness in the dark was a strange sensation. Montparnasse stretched his eyelids wide, expecting a glimmer of light or his surroundings to take a faded shape in the dark of the sewers.

Then he remembered.

He had let himself fall to the banks of the Seine, but Gueulemer had rescued him from death, condemning him to a life lived as a cripple, a blinded beggar, for the Patron-Minette should not have to support him.

A hand closed around his arm and he stiffened. He did not know what had transpired while he had been unconscious; perhaps he was in prison again. He suddenly remembered Dentelle, his companion from prison, with no small amount of surprise. Dentelle had been executed. The blade had fallen quickly and it had been over. There was no room for error.

"Montparnasse?"

He groaned slightly, for it was the voice of Azelma. The Patron-Minette had foolishly saved him again, prolonging his life. The slight hope in his chest, born at the thought of execution, flickered and went out, a weak candle on a stormy night.

"You should have let them take me," Montparnasse said dully.

Azelma's voice was impassioned. "I would never do that. Babet cut the man's throat, and he and Gueulemer are hiding the body further in the sewers. Gueulemer brought you here."

He scowled irritably. "If you gave a damn about me, you'd let me die."

"You said that you once dreamt of love," Azelma said gently. The sudden change of topic caught Montparnasse off-guard. "Who was she?"

"A whore," growled Montparnasse, "why the hell do you care?"

"What was her name?"

This question surprised Montparnasse enough to answer before he could think of a snide retort. "Juliette. Her name was Juliette." And then something inside of him broke open; he saw a glimpse of his own soul for the first time. "God, but she was beautiful," he continued in a whisper, "but she was cold. Distant. I believed that I could somehow please her. I believed that I had already pleased her, and that she loved me. Everything was simpler then. I assumed that love called for a wedding, a home, a family... how silly of me. I didn't understand what this world really was until I asked her to marry me."

"She turned you down?" Azelma asked timidly.

Montparnasse smiled weakly into the impregnable blackness. "I killed her. I was fifteen years old."

Neither spoke for several moments. Juliette's icy eyes flashed through the darkness that had become Montparnasse's world, and he held his breath.

"It wasn't the same with Éponine," Azelma said quietly.

The vision burst and again Montparnasse was blind. He jerked away from Azelma, whose hand still encircled his wrist, and staggered in the opposite direction of her voice, his arms outstretched. She easily caught him, throwing her arms around his waist, and pinned him to the sewer wall.

"Stop running away! Just stay and listen to me. What's the worst that could happen?"

Montparnasse, in a sort of primitive instinctive reaction to being captured, allowed himself to go completely limp. He slid down to the sewer floor, the muck slowly permeating his trousers. "I have it now," he groaned, "I did die, and this is Hell."

"Not Hell," Azelma answered, "it's Paris."

"It's both," Montparnasse mumbled. He tried to shake Azelma off, but his resolve to run, his need to hide from the past, had been sorely shaken when he had thought of Juliette. He was so close to seeing himself clearly, to knowing why he had been so cruel and thoughtless towards everyone who cared for him, and the idea of understanding, of making peace with himself, was appealing. He let his head fall back against the wall of the sewer behind him in surrender.

"My sister," Azelma said firmly, "loved you."

Montparnasse shook his head. "She loved the baron."

"The what? No, Montparnasse, she loved you all along. After you left her that night she forced herself to stop thinking of you. She told me to help her; I did it because I hoped that you and I... but enough of that. A handsome young man lived next door, and she told me that he could replace you if she tried hard enough. Monsieur Marius."

"And then?"

"And then she no longer spoke of you."

"There is no such thing as love."

"There is love," Azelma countered, "I have seen its symptoms. I have seen it ruin a life."

"I didn't ruin Éponine's life!" Montparnasse cried into the darkness.

There was a pause before Azelma's voice answered him. He felt her body shift by his side before she said quietly, "That's good, Montparnasse, you said her name."

He scowled.

"I didn't mean her. Éponine did not know love. She fled from it. Her feelings for the baron were not as... as pure or true. She forced herself to love him. I did not mean my sister. Love ruined _your_ life, Montparnasse."

"Love is a lie."

"You were in love with Éponine."

"Juliette showed me that love is impossible."

"Love was impossible for Juliette. She changed you. She drove you to murder, didn't she? She made you what you are today."

"A blind cripple lying in the sewers?"

"A frightened man who lived in regret."

Montparnasse paused, allowing Azelma's words to float in his consciousness. It was true. He could think of nothing but regret in his past—he had wasted too much time with Juliette, he had pushed Éponine too far, he had abandoned her for too long, he had...

Her last words surfaced in his memories, sharp and clear as the day he first heard them.

_After today, 'Parnasse, I'm afraid I shall hate you until I die._

A wicked thing to say, his old pet name only driving the wound deeper into his soul.

"I wronged her."

"And she you," Azelma reminded him. "She lied to you and herself."

"This is ridiculous," snarled Montparnasse suddenly, pushing Azelma away and carefully getting to his feet.

"You love her," Azelma's voice said from below; she remained on the sewer floor.

Montparnasse shook his head again. "Love is a lie," he repeated, his calm voice disguising the panic that clogged his throat. The corners of his mouth jerked downward, and he pressed his lips together in a straight line.

"Montparnasse?"

To his horror, Montparnasse felt his eyes filling with tears. He rolled them upward and blinked several times. The water gathered in the corners and leaked over his cheeks.

"Oh, 'Parnasse," Azelma sighed. She had moved and was standing before him now. He swung an arm in the direction of her voice, satisfied by the soft thud and shallow splash as he knocked her over.

His voice cracked bitterly as he shouted at her, trying to remove her truths from his mind and the shame that the tears had brought him. He called her every name he could think of, bellowed every curse, obscenity, and insult that came to mind, no matter how petty. He felt her throw her arms around him again, pinning his own arms to his sides, and Montparnasse found that he had no strength to break free. He slumped into the muck again, wondering why Death did not want him. "Understand this," Azelma's voice hissed into his ear, "it does not matter how hard or how often you hit me, you will not convince me to hate you. I know you cannot love anymore; I know my sister destroyed you somehow; I know that you left her and used her after that. You can crack my bones apart and scratch all the flesh from my body, but even with my dying breath I will feel no anger toward you. Save us both the time and stop treating me this way. I speak the truth; it is though no fault of my that you cannot hear it."

"You're a fool," Montparnasse panted, exhausted from the feeble struggle he had put up against her.

"As are you," said Azelma, moving away from him again. "Wouldn't we have made a fine couple?"

"You're heavier than I thought."

"I've finally managed to gain a little weight. Don't ask me how."

Montparnasse shrugged and pushed himself into a sitting position. His instincts screamed to launch himself at Azelma, to hit her, but he was too weak. It was not only a lack of strength—Montparnasse was tired. He was tired of fighting the law, his friends, and himself. He wanted to sink into an oblivion where sounds and feelings would disappear as well, and he would be nothing. "Éponine," he repeated softly. It had been so long since his lips had formed that name. At last the ache of his body concerned him more than the ache of his soul.

"It would not have been long until she tired of Monsieur Marius, boring, love-struck thinker that he was. If you hadn't pursued her, my sister would have probably tried to pursue you again. She always needed something to complain about, my Éponine; she was least content when she seemed happiest."

It was then that a path took shape in Montparnasse's mind. He scrambled to his feet, his legs threatening to give way beneath him.

"What time is it, Azelma?"

"Afternoon. Why?"

"Can you lead me to my loft?"

"The barn?"

"Yes. I need a clean suit."

"Why?" Her voice was thick with confusion and concern.

Montparnasse smiled into the blackness. "I want to pay someone a visit."


	32. A Visit

A/N- This was one of my three favourite chapters (the death of Juliette, the rape of Éponine, then this), but I don't know. My last chapter got the fewest hits of any of the others, so I feel I've lost my readers by dragging the fic on too long. I promise that there are just a few chapters left—I'm thinking that's it's only two, in fact. So a few reviews to send me on my way would be really nice.

* * *

The chatter of birds above and the rumbling of wheels below seemed beautiful. The sun warmed the side of his face with a faint rosy glow. Montparnasse tried to imagine how the city looked on a beautiful day such as this, but he could not. He realised that he had never really seen Paris, never looked at something just to see what it was, and now it was too late. He had spent his life with his thoughts wrapped around himself; now the world had taken everything else from him. Vanity had been his downfall. The words seemed familiar.

"Here we are," Azelma's voice said. She took his hand in hers and placed it against a smooth wood surface a foot or so in front of them. "Number six, Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire." The tones of her voice were strained, repressing a strong emotion that must have been curiosity.

"What time is it?"

"Evening," she murmured.

"Thank you, Azelma. Leave me now."

"But 'Par—"

"Go on."

She made a small choking sound, perhaps holding back tears. Her voice shook. "What do you want with these people? What are you trying to do?"

"I want to finish what I started," he answered calmly. "Goodbye, Azelma—and thank you."

Her trembling fingers found his, and she gently clasped his hand. "Goodbye," she repeated, and her hand slipped from his grasp.

Montparnasse reached out, his crippled arm encircling her waist, and pulled her into an embrace. "Thank you," he said again. She laid her head on his chest, her wild curls brushing against his jaw. Impulsively, he found her chin with his hand, lifted her head, and kissed her lightly. He tasted tears on her lips.

"I love you, Montparnasse," she whispered, then pushed herself away and retreated. He heard her bare feet brushing the paving stones as she hurried away from the house.

Letting out a sharp breath between his teeth, Montparnasse found the door again. If only Éponine had cared for him as deeply as did Azelma. That would have meant—

He stopped his thoughts. Montparnasse would remain composed and gentlemanly for as long as possible. Passing his hand across the face of the door, his grappling fingers finally brushed against the cold metal of the knocker. He seized it and let it fall three times.

Uncertain of his intent, Montparnasse waited for an answer at the door. He did not know what to say, only that he wanted to speak to his enemy at last, armed with his new-found tolerance and understanding. He also knew the inevitable outcome of such a meeting, and relished the thought.

He heard the door open, and a man's voice asked him to state his business.

"I am here to see the baron—Marius," Montparnasse said confidently.

A different male voice responded from a little further away. "Baron Pontmercy?"

"Yes, I suppose so."

"Who should I say is calling?" the second voice asked pompously.

Hoping to come across as an old friend, Montparnasse grinned. "Don't give him a name! That would spoil the surprise."

There was a slight pause before the second man answered, clearly taking the bait. "Follow me," and footsteps retreated into the house.

Montparnasse sighed. He reached out for the doorframe, found it, and slowly stepped forward. Groping about him, trying to imagine his surroundings, he took another careful step.

"Basque, you fool!" cried the voice of an old woman. "Monsieur is apparently blind!"

A hand was laid on Montparnasse's arm, and the kind old voice said, "Come with me, Monsieur... what was your name?"

Following her obediently, Montparnasse answered, "I haven't said it."

At last they passed through another doorway, and the old woman led him to a soft chair, bidding him sit. Montparnasse did, but then he did not hear her leave.

"Madame?"

"I apologise, Monsieur, but your face reminds me of someone."

Montparnasse said nothing. He knew that if she discovered his identity now she would probably send for the police before he met the baron. He had to do this last thing; the story was almost complete in his mind. There was one missing piece: the baron's point of view. He was here to collect it.

He did not wait long. A door creaked open, and Montparnasse got to his feet, assuming the baron had entered the room.

"Yes? May I help you?"

The voice sent a malicious shudder down his spine. Montparnasse had heard it only twice before, years ago, but it stood out painfully clear in his memories. "Well," he smiled, "at last we meet face to face. Éponine told me to leave you alone, so I shan't do you any harm, for her sake; I suppose I simply wanted to hear your end of the story. I've heard everyone else's."

He heard a sharp gasp and the baron asked, "What name did you say?"

"You certainly must know it well enough."

"Did you say Éponine?"

Montparnasse scowled. "I did." He did not like the way the baron had pronounced those syllables.

"I knew a girl called Éponine once."

"I know it! Éponine Thénardier. The urchin who— who died at the barricades. The one who led you to that girl in the Rue Plumet."

"How do you know all this? How did you know her?"

Montparnasse clenched his teeth for a moment. "I loved her," he said at last.

He almost regretted the words as they left his lips, for they gave him an air of vulnerability. If he could love, perhaps he was capable of compassion. He needed the baron to believe him when he revealed his name. Now that Éponine was dead, however, and Montparnasse had said these words so plainly, the baron could almost pity him. Yet he felt a slight release, a strange pride, for at last he had admitted it, voicing the idea that had been tugging at his consciousness for so long.

"Éponine?" the baron asked incredulously. He started to say something else, but the door opened again and a set of light footsteps padded into the room. "Marius, I— Monsieur! Monsieur, I don't know what to say!"

"Cosette, you know this man?" the baron asked.

"He came to the Rue Plumet twice, frightening me quite horribly."

"You never told me?"

"Should I have? It did not seem important."

"Madame," Montparnasse interrupted, "my congratulations on your marriage. I can only assume you have everything you ever wanted."

"Very nearly. My papa..." she trailed off. "Nicolette, what's wrong?"

The old woman spoke again. "I seem to recognise Monsieur." She had not moved from the corner.

"I don't doubt that you do, Madame. I shall tell you who I am, and I suppose you may then do what you wish. My name is Montparnasse."

The baron gasped again, and his wife began asking him what the trouble was. The thief, however, did not hear either of them. The only sound that reached his ear was the old woman's cry of, "Jules!"

He turned toward her voice. "What did you say?"

"I knew I recognised you, chéri! It's you, my little Jules! But what happened to you? Why can't you see? Oh, my child, don't you know me? I haven't always been called Nicolette, little one! I was once Madame Buffon! I found you as a tiny baby in the boulevard Montparnasse while I was walking, and I raised you! You ran away when you were only a little thing to be an urchin. Oh, my sweet boy, I was certain you had died! I think of you every day. But tell me, dearest, why can't you see?"

Montparnasse, slightly dazed, answered, "I tried to kill myself and failed."

"Nicolette," said the baron, "you raised this... this assassin?"

"This what?"

"Montparnasse!" Marius repeated. "He's part of the street gang, the Patron-Minette. I witnessed... but never mind. You have never heard of the Patron-Minette?"

"Why, no, monsieur le baron."

"They're a gang of vagabonds led by an older man, my former neighbour, Thénar—"

Montparnasse snorted.

"Well, what?" demanded the baron.

"Led by Thénardier? Don't be ridiculous. Babet, Gueulemer, and I led the Patron-Minette. And Claquesous, before he died. The innkeeper was an apprentice. And anyway, he's off to America soon. He came into money."

"Yes, by blackmail!" the baron cried. His voice shook with fury. "Cosette, you need to leave the room."

"But—"

"Go now!"

A door opened and closed.

"Excuse me," said Montparnasse, "but I have no wish to harm any of you. I merely wanted to know what Éponine was to you. Or could you not tell me in front of your wife?"

The baron had muttered something, and Montparnasse heard a heavy set of feet leave the room.

"Éponine?" the baron repeated aloud.

Montparnasse nodded.

"She saved my life once, and she brought me to Cosette. That is all. I had not thought of her since—"

"But what did you think of her then?"

The baron seemed to fumble for an answer. "Nothing," he said at last.

Montparnasse believed him. The tone of his voice was so flat, so unimpassioned, that it was obvious that Éponine had only earned the baron's pity. "Who is still here?"

"Baron Pontmercy and I, Jules," the old woman said again. "Oh, you've grown to be so handsome! Why can't you see, did you say?"

"He tried to kill himself, Nicolette," the baron replied.

A door opened yet again. "What's all this noise? Oh, Marius, is this a friend of yours?"

"No, Father. This man is a thief and a mur—"

"But that can't be true!" interrupted Madame Buffon. "My apologies, messieurs, but I'm sure my Jules would never—"

"I would, madame, and I have," Montparnasse corrected her. "There are several different shades of blood on my hands, not to mention I've never earned an honest sou in my entire life."

"That Dupont! See what he did to you! You would have been a fine boy, Jules, a doorman or a cook, had you stayed with me. I would have found you a pretty wife—" her voice broke over a sob. "Oh, if ever I see that boy again, I'll cut his throat!"

"No need," Montparnasse said. "I've already done it."

This was met with silence.

The old man spoke at last. "What's going on?"

"Monsieur Marius," said Montparnasse, "I suppose a moment ago you summoned the police."

"I did." There was a quick movement in the room—Montparnasse imagined that someone was prepared to block him from the exit.

"Well, how long will it take them?" Montparnasse asked. "I've been waiting for years."

He threw himself back into the armchair.


	33. The Crowd

He could hear the hubbub of a crowd chattering amongst themselves. He clenched his jaw to keep his teeth from knocking together as the cart bumped through the streets. The people nearest him jeered; he felt things swishing past his head. Something damp splattered across the front of his heavy smock.

At last the cart stopped and he was led through the crowd. The guards took him to the platform and shoved him down, pressing his neck against a wooden lath.

Drums echoed his heartbeat: the pace was slow, regular. He was unafraid.

* * *

Supported by the doorman's arm, Nicolette dabbed her tears away with one of Madame's lace handkerchiefs. There was the black-eyed baby she had found in the streets, wrapped in the rags of an old dress. This was the boy she had clothed, raised—loved. Should she have been more accepting of his friend? Had she smothered him? Was she responsible for this wasted life, corpses facedown in a pool of blood? The mere thought was enough to cause her to swoon. Basque helped her back to the carriage.

* * *

A woman watched with a cluster of young prostitutes, some clinging to her skirts. She remembered a stolen purse the knife inside, the dried blood on the neck of one of her friends, and wondered how it had all come to this. He had always been her boy, a clever, charming young urchin, and the awful stories she had heard over the years since he disappeared had hardly been comprehensible. She had always loved him, always hoped she would see him again. But not like this.

* * *

A girl stood with a small group of coarse men—one large, one small, one old. Her flyaway mess of tangled dark curls framed a face that was both weathered and young. The pain brimming in her eyes was cast into shadow by the deep circles beneath them. Her cheeks were drawn in with hunger, yet her midsection was not as frail as her limbs. As the shining blade hissed downward, Azelma was overcome with sickness in the middle of the street. The remaining shell of the Patron-Minette hurried her away before they were noticed.

* * *

The crowd applauded the execution politely. 


	34. Epilogue: Azelma

Alas, for the end has finally come! Thank you all for hanging on through thirty-odd chapters. You are amazingly tenacious, and I love you for it. Thanks to the fraction of you who bothered to review: without you, I never would have had the will to type the next chapter. Montparnasse took on a life of his own while I was writing this, completely leaving my rough draft, but somehow I managed to reach a relatively similar ending to my original. Thanks for your support, and I give you now, without further ado about nothing, the end of an era: the final chapter of Charmer of the Shadows.

* * *

Azelma's father mocked and berated her each time she staggered back down below deck, wiping at the corners of her mouth. He took his daughter's apparent seasickness as a personal insult, a smear on the good name of Thénard. Azelma herself did not bother to correct him when, upon reaching land, he began to complain that she was becoming fat and lazy. It was not long until the truth became apparent.

A boy was born to them that year.

Azelma was not very surprised and only slightly saddened when she awoke one morning to find that her father had gone. Dreaming of an upright life for her son, she took work in a mill, despite her very slight understanding of English. The other girls in the boarding house believed that her husband had remained in France, raising the money to join them.

In order to remain in favour and in residence at the boarding house, she was careful to keep the child silent, which meant many nights spent awake, rocking and whispering in French to him. It was on such a night that she decided on a name for her child.

"You are lucky," she murmured, "that my father abandoned us."

The baby blinked his black eyes at her. His father's eyes. Azelma smiled.

"And you are lucky that your father is dead. He is lucky to be dead. All he wanted was peace.

"Will you be like him, I wonder? He was once a good man. I would have you be a good man, too. I have an honest job now—God knows how long it will last. The work is hard and dangerous, and the pay is low, but I have a home, and my darling boy has a chance I was never given. A chance at an honest living, a chance at a future inside the law. What will it be like, I wonder, to be able to go out in the daylight, unconcerned at passing a cop, secure and comfortable in your own goodness? To go to a school and to learn, to be smart enough to— to attend a university! Or to open your own shop. You'd be the first Thénardier to do such a thing, you know." She smiled sadly. "You could run an inn, like your grandfather once did. But no, an honest inn, where the guests won't have to sleep with their arms around their luggage."

The baby's blinks were becoming slower and further apart. Azelma sensed that he was almost asleep. She smoothed a stray lock of his black hair with her forefinger.

"You will be devastatingly handsome, my darling, just like your father. You have his eyes. Beautiful black eyes... his heart was not so black as they all believed. There was a good man in there, buried beneath... something. Lost opportunities, or no opportunities, no chance at all to make something honest of himself. A love he did not know what to do with for a girl who did not deserve him. And then there was me, the replacement, following him through his shadowy little world, completely infatuated with him. He was enchanting, but he was dark. He never had hope. But you—you are his hope. Our hope."

The baby was asleep, one hand in his mouth and the other tangled in Azelma's tattered shirt. She clasped him closer to her heart and leaned down, her lips brushing his soft forehead as she whispered, "Montparnasse is still alive. A new Montparnasse, a better one, in America. I am registered here as Azelma Montparnasse, and you are my little Espoir. And you, my little charmer, will never live in the shadows."

She smiled into the darkness and repeated the word. "Never."


End file.
